


Abibliophobia

by Riadasti



Category: Pride and Prejudice & Related Fandoms, Pride and Prejudice (1995)
Genre: Books, Diary/Journal, Eventual Romance, F/M, Family Drama, Family Feels, Female Friendship, Forgive the modern language usage, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, I'm no Austen, Older Man/Younger Woman, Personal Growth, just lots of books
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-05
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2020-06-09 22:39:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 25,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19485451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Riadasti/pseuds/Riadasti
Summary: (Inside a nondescript leatherbound volume)As a warning to any curious passerby who may have discovered this book, separated from its owner, be forewarned that you will find neither a damsel in distress nor a quiet beauty hoping that fate will bring us together.





	1. Vilis Libri

**Author's Note:**

> Hello readers! This is my first post on AO3, and I could not be more excited to finally share a wealth of fanfiction-like material waiting on my computer. I have years and years of this stuff to share, so be forewarned. 
> 
> Fun fact: the title means "the fear of running out of reading material." I felt that was appropriate. 
> 
> Mary Bennet has always gotten the short end of the stick in my opinion (and by relation, Kitty as well), so I wanted to give her an "outlet" for some pent-up feelings. And potentially a happy ending, like her other sisters. 
> 
> For this story, I'm thinking I will post 1-2 entries for every "chapter." Thoughts on this?
> 
> Any feedback/suggestions are greatly appreciated!

_Thursday August 3rd, 1815_

Dear Diary,

(Oh, but that is an overused phrase. I shall a new name for you and make this quaint, leather-bound booklet my own.)

As a warning to any curious passerby who may have discovered this book, separated from its owner, be forewarned that you will find neither a damsel in distress nor a quiet beauty hoping that fate will bring us together. Be assured that my intent is firstly: to practice my penmanship, and secondly: to follow in the Latin words _nosce te ipsum,_ which, translated, means to "know thyself", and thirdly: to "express myself clearly" as my mother often harps on me for neglecting. I prefer to be a silent observer of conversation and tend to speak only when I find words that are _meant_ to be spoken, much to the chagrin of my chatterbox of a mother.

I am also an aspiring intellectual. And, in true intellectual fashion, I have spent the better part of the past year dwelling on bygone mistakes (Lydia would call me self-centered for this, but I prefer to think of it as self-reflective), and it grieves me to recall many errors made in my own naïveté. I’ve watched my sisters mature into married life, with the unhappy exception of my youngest sibling, Lydia—how that girl and her reckless husband survive month to month is a mystery to Father and me. My other younger sibling, Kitty, is soon to be engaged to a young captain and will no doubt be happy with his modest salary.

Lydia’s life is not a source of envy for me. Wickham was a foul choice for a husband—handsome, but a reckless gambler. Instead, it is my other sisters that have spurred this sudden desire for introspection. Jane and Lizzie managed to find men who met them as intellectual and emotional equals (though I may still have my doubts about stone-faced Darcy). Even Kitty and Jacob will make a pleasant pair, finding joy in the simplest pleasures in life—but most importantly, in each other. I, however, have only ever met one gentleman who turned my head—Mr. Collins. What a sad disappointment that was…

Now that I am nearing the age of “old maidenhood” (according to my mother) at twenty, I have resigned myself to seek satisfaction and fulfillment in other pursuits. I find pleasure in the study of literature (none of the trash that Lydia and Kitty read), psychology, history, and any of the common sciences. I, at one time, found music to be a great source of joy, but…well…while I have some difficulty memorizing lines of poems, I will never forget:

“Did you hear Mary squalling away in front of everyone? We were all laughing behind our hands!” (Lydia)

“Bingley’s sisters were horrified at that blatant display of ineptitude.” (one of Lydia’s many friends)

But worst of all was my father…

He had approached just after I’d started my third piece, and said, in his usual sardonic tone: “Extremely well, child. You’ve delighted us long enough.” He looked out, passing a sarcastic, knowing look to the gathered guests. He then leaned down and, in a dramatically loud whisper, stated, “Let the _other_ young ladies _exhibit_.”

I quickly gathered my sheets of music, but when I glanced around, I saw laughter on the faces of some of the guests, horror in others, and (worst of all) mortification on Jane and Lizzie’s features. I could care less about the other partygoers, but Lizzie and Jane’s disappointment was almost too much to bear. And my own father’s blatant sarcasm at my apparent lack of skill cut me to the core.

When Bingley’s sister jumped up and offered her thrilling tribute, I had to recognize that maybe, just maybe, my talent wasn’t as astounding as I had assumed.

This was a crushing blow. Perhaps writing will become a new (and hopefully more skilled) outlet for me.

Till tomorrow, friend,

_Mary B._

~ ~ ~

_Friday August 4th, 1815_

Dear Red-Ribboned Friend,

(No, I don’t like that name either…)

Some exciting news! After nearly an entire day of presenting the idea to my father (wherein he immediately approved) and then to my mother (wherein she instantly faked heart palpitations and fainted), I am now a proud shop assistant at the quaintest little bookstore in town.

I cannot think straight for the anticipation of tomorrow: hundreds of books at my fingertips and endless time to read them as I please! Saturdays are slow, which will provide plenty of time to acquaint myself with the shelving system (which has fallen in some state of disrepair as he has had little luck finding employees).

Mr. Augustus Chesley is a resigned bachelor of thirty-five, an odd, quiet sort of man. He dislikes my shelving, and we disagree entirely as to how it should be done. Loath as he is to admit it, his own system is flawed. Why, I have not yet had one customer who can find a book without some sort of assistance! I often have difficulties making a sale at all since the shelves seem to be neither in alphabetical order nor by author (I believe Mr. Chesley uses both interchangeably).

As you can see, dear little friend, I can scarcely keep these disagreements to myself; they are so many! I do not think Mr. Chesley and I shall ever share a common opinion or feeling as long as I continue to set foot in _Vilis Libri_.

I am resigned, however, and allow myself a moment of pleasure, for upon translating the Latin words, I discover it to mean “cheap books.” Mr. Chesley’s grandfather built the store and stocked it with a small collection of books. And, as they were bought with little cost, they were sold at exceedingly low prices. It was Mr. Chesley’s grandfather’s ultimate goal to allow those of lesser means to experience great literature.

Strangely enough, Mr. Chesley expressed this same desire to me during a rare moment of openness. It is this point alone that allows me to more easily accept his reclusive and demanding nature—but more of this will have to wait until the morrow. Mother has noticed the late hours I have been keeping, and to avoid further reprimand or intrusive questions at the breakfast table, I shall carry you with me to work. It is no longer safe to keep you at home, _mon ami_!

My eyes can no longer stay open with weariness!

Until tomorrow,

_Mary B._


	2. Robinson Crusoe and Pilgrim's Progress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I have been observing you, Miss Bennet, and I find your logic oddly…refreshing.”

_ Saturday August 5th, 1815  _

Dear Little Friend,

(closer, but still not quite…)

I have kept you hidden beneath a pile of new arrivals all morning, but I finally have a moment of repose. Mr. Chesley seems particularly solitary this humid afternoon. He has hardly said a word to me upon arrival, and he has already locked himself away in his office. What he does in there for hours on end, pray tell, I do not know!

Only two days into this occupation, and I have already pinpointed my employer’s daily routine: he rises early, dresses alone in the small flat above the store, eats a meager breakfast, and prepares the store (sometimes returning the shelves to their usual disorder in an attempt to undo the “damage” I have done). The cleaning woman (I believe she comes from Poland) comes at 8 o’clock sharp to tidy up the creaking, dusty shelves, but her efforts to clean are somewhat dampened by Mr. Chesley’s tendency to resist change; he does not like to see any of the furniture moved. The maid does her best, dusting around the erratically placed novels and awkward furniture before departing at lunch every day. She says not a word to me, but it is still a comfort to have a female presence in the store. I cannot imagine being occupied as the sole woman in this store! The blunt of his outbursts would fall on my shoulders. Her name ~

(I was forced to abandon this train of thought as my employer stormed in to berate me for moving a chair)

While Mr. Chesley may be lacking in social refinement and the qualities that make a gentleman (in both physique and etiquette), he does have an excellent vocabulary and impeccable taste in literature. I would expect nothing less from a bookstore owner, but I will say that this unforseen depth comes as a surprise.

You may also be wondering what has caused such an outburst of kindly words towards my employer—and you will not believe me—but he has inspired a name for you!

I will recount the events as they happened only moments ago:

He entered, his dark brow and ruffled petticoat informing me wordlessly of his foul mood. He has quite a temper, and he turned his face to me suddenly, his thin lips downturned.

“Where is that libellus?”

“I beg your pardon, Sir?”

“Oh, confound it, woman! Libellus! Little book! I have always kept it in this particular spot.” He motioned emphatically with his long fingers toward the uppermost shelf closest to his office.

“Ah, it was a fictional book?” I recalled at that moment having moved a petite copy of Robinson Crusoe by Daniel Defoe. I stood and retrieved it, informing my employer politely that all such books were placed on the same shelf should he wish to find more.

“All together, you say?” He took the book from my outstretched hand, and I glimpsed a moment of relief on his face as he leafed through faded, dog-eared pages of the little book.

His face resumed its usual sour expression when he turned his gaze upon my figure. “I will have no more of this moving things about! I have kept these books exactly as they were for years. I know exactly where everything is placed, down to the last leaflet of essays.”

“That is very well, Sir,” I said with immense care, “but the customers do not. Many have entered, browsed various shelves with puzzled expressions and soon require my services. I must confess, Sir, that I do not understand the peculiar way which you have organized these books, and just yesterday I could not retrieve _Pilgrim’s Progress_ for a customer, and he soon left empty-handed!” I silenced myself, afraid I had said too much.

He seemed lost in thought for a moment before speaking, “But must everything have a system?” His voice was softened and oddly apologetic, as if I had served him a blow on either cheek for being naughty.

I took a moment to breathe and collect my words carefully. “It must at least have logic, Mr. Chesley.”

He seemed resigned, his thin shoulders sagging, “Oh, very well. You may move things about as you like.” He held a cautionary finger towards me, “But mind you, if it doesn’t improve the sales one mite, we will move them back as they were.” Mr. Chesley turned, sighing, and, with one last fond glimpse at his crooked rows of books, locked himself in his office with _Robinson Crusoe_.

And so, my Libellus (as I shall call you hereafter), I will start right away with these books! I shall, perhaps, require the services of the cleaning lady to put this place in proper order—that is, if she will speak to me.

It has been a lengthy evening, indeed. I am quite weary—my hands can scarcely keep a grip on this quill—but I have so much more to tell! I am afraid it will have to wait until tomorrow (though I can scarce rest easy until I have told you all that has happened).

Until tomorrow, my dear little book!

_Mary B._

~~~

_Sunday August 6 th, 1815_

Dear Libellus,

I have just returned from our morning church service. The preacher was tolerable this, but I must admit that my mind was often preoccupied with thoughts of scribbling away in my ‘little book.’ Even Mother noticed my restless spirit, fixing me with several ice-cold stares throughout church (meanwhile _her_ eyes were preoccupied in gazing at every ‘eligible’ young man in the congregation).

I shall have to face her at dinner, much as I loathe her incessant questions. She is determined to pair me with the new young vicar, but having spoken only three words with him in passing (and having suffered through his rather dull sermon), he strikes me as a dead bore.

And now I can pour yesterday’s events onto this page! As it was our slow day, I managed to convince the cleaning lady, Adela, to assist me in the massive project I had undertaken. She was shy at first, and is not a talkative woman, but she agreed nonetheless.

During church, I had taken time to think of the most logical organization of all the materials (the sermon proved fruitful after all) and immediately wrote it down with great detail upon returning home. I was ecstatic to begin immediately, and Adela was most helpful! I organized things first by category (prose, poetry, drama, the sciences, etc) and then by author. After several hours, Adela and I had moved every single book to its new and proper place, and every shelf was spotlessly clean. She graciously offered to stay later than her usual shift to assist me.

I cannot tell you how fluctuating were my feelings—at once excited, and then nervous and apprehensive underneath the sporadic and watchful eye of my employer. Mr. Chesley emerged from his study numerous times, but he scarce said a word—which continued to vex and unnerve me!

It was not until much later that evening, twenty minutes prior to closing, that he approached me. I had fallen into a soft reverie as I stood by my desk, overlooking my work with pride.

“I have been observing you, Miss Bennet, and I find your logic oddly…refreshing.”

I could hardly believe he was giving me such praise. I simply nodded, studying his face through my dusty spectacles. “Thank you, Sir.”

“However,” he looked back and forth between Adela and myself, “if this arrangement serves as a detriment to this establishment, I shall have to take any losses directly from your salary, Miss Bennet—and yours too, Miss Florian.”

It is strange, Libellus, but I found myself speaking without carefully considering my words.

“No, sir.” I said, with unexpected heat.

I do not know what came over me!

He turned to me sharply, surprised (as I was) by this outburst. “Pardon?”

“Rather…” I faltered, “I think if any money should be taken from a salary, that it should be my own and _not_ Miss Adela’s.”

A small smile stole into his murky gray eyes. “Very well.”

I did not see him again for the rest of the day. At the end of a long day, I left with Adela in a carriage (an overindulgence on my part, but we were both too weary to walk—and she lives more than a mile from town). Despite our exhaustion, we fell into pleasant conversation, in which she told me that she had moved to England from Poland with her grandmother. I am unsure of the correct spelling, but she was careful to correct me that her full name is pronounced Adel-ay-dah Florchak. Mr. Chesley had suggested shortening it, (and she had altered her last name to avoid too much notice as an immigrant) but I will do my best to pronounce her full, given name as often as I please. She expressed her gratitude for the kindness I had shown her. She is ten years my senior, but I do believe it could develop into a friendship—one of my first in many years.

I spent the rest of my Sunday in quiet reflection and (what else) some light reading. 

In all my twenty years, I have never felt so proud. I got to bed tonight--weary and with still-aching muscles--but with the knowledge that all my hard work will remain precisely as I left it.

Tomorrow has the promise of good business, and I need my rest.

_Mary B._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here I am again! You don't have to like this story, but I must confess I'm enjoying myself immensely. 
> 
> It's natural that Mary will become more of my own character than Austen's (forgive me, Jane Austen, patron saint of Regency romance), so I hope you can tolerate her. I wanted her to be less stuffy and rigid as she was in the novel and the many TV/Movie adaptations.
> 
> I request your immediate feedback! Please and thank you!
> 
> <3 Riadasti


	3. De Cervantes and Fielding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mr. Chesley opened his door (rather too soon--as if he had been waiting for my reaction) and peered around it with an expression of pure innocence.
> 
> "Is something amiss, Miss Bennet?"

_Monday August 7 th, 1815_

Libellus,

I arrived to the bookstore this morning with slight trepidation and excitement. I had prepared myself for a fruitful day, and perhaps much mention and praise from customers of the new arrangement of things. What I had not considered was the obstinate nature of my employer.

As I entered the store, using a copy of the key that Mr. Chesley had entrusted to me, I marveled at how neat and tidy everything appeared. My eyes scanned the shelves, but something caught my eye. The top shelf closest to Mr. Chesley’s private office was oddly scattered. Several books had been removed and double stacked against one of the lower shelves in favor of his his faded copy of _Robinson Crusoe._

A sudden sense of outrage swelled in my chest. After all of our hard work, laboring for hours over both the cleaning and the organizing of the store, Mr. Chesley attempted to undo it with his stubbornness—over one book. With a huff, I returned the non-descript novel to its position in the prose section (in its rightful place between De Cervantes and Fielding) and repaired the damage he had done to the shelf of scientific studies.

As soon as Mr. Chesley entered the shop, his eyes traveled to the shelf closest to his office. He frowned, but with a carefully measured "Good morning, Miss Bennet," he demonstrated nothing more than his usual distaste of early mornings.

However, when I returned from tea later that afternoon, I found that he had _yet again_ moved the books out of place in favor of his Libellus. I huffed and, rather noisily, repaired the damage he had done to the pristinely organized shelves.

I can scarce believe it...but this happened a third time! In a single day! I returned from assisting Adelajda with clearing the ashes from the hearth and found the novels in disarray once more.

Before I could stop myself, I let out a cry of frustration. Mr. Chesley opened his door (rather too soon--as if he had been waiting for my reaction) and peered around it with an expression of pure innocence.

"Is something amiss, Miss Bennet?"

I soothed my features as best I could, replying in my blandest tone, "Of course not, Mr. Chesley."

I was forced to leave the books as they were as several customers entered, but their disorganization taunted me for the remainder of the afternoon

Later, I spoke about this exchange to Adelayda (I really must ask her how that is spelled), and she gazed at me with her wide, expressive eyes.

“You did that?” She began to laugh. “You two are like bickering siblings, or perhaps a married couple, no?” At my outraged expression, she held up her hands in surrender. “I only imply that he treats you as an equal, and not as an employee. It is nice, no?”

When asked how he treated his employees in the past, she told me that aside from hiring her as his cleaning lady (of which he allowed to clean very little, until I came into the picture), he has had no other people in his employ.

“So I am the first, aside from you?” I was baffled.

I pondered my behavior over the past few days, and I had a sneaking suspicion that I had been a little over-eager to “prove” myself at this occupation. Knowing his resistance to change, my performance must have been convincing enough to allow him to permit so many alterations to his business.

I must admit, Libellus, that I blush now when I think of how boldly I spoke to him after only three days in his employ. My Bennet pride and stubbornness got the best of me. I barreled into this shop and insisted on my own way.

Sweet merciful heavens…I’ve been acting like a combination of Mother and Lydia. I am mortified.

I pondered this the rest of the day, and my conscience was pricked to such a degree that I felt I must say something to Mr. Chesley before he began to regret hiring me. My gaze often wandered to the upper shelf where he had placed his own Libellus earlier that day. I pulled this small, unremarkable novel from its place in the Prose section and examined it further.

What special meaning did this novel hold for Mr. Chesley that he would insist on its being placed in prominent view?

I gingerly opened the front cover and marveled at a small inscription on the first page:

_My dear Auggie,_

_May this book guide you through the harshest of journeys that life has to offer you. Don’t be too content to stay in one place. Growth only happens through change. Though I cannot be your ‘Friday,’ my deepest wish is that you find another to take my place by your side._

_Yours always,_

_Grand-père_

Auggie, I realized, must be short for Augustus. And _Grand-père_ must be Mr. Chesley’s grandfather, the original owner of _Vilis Libri._

I instantly felt as though I was intruding, and emboldened by this fresh mortification, I decided I must speak to him at once.

Here is what occurred:

Mr. Chesley was heard to stand and open the door. On seeing me, his expression softened slightly.

“Miss Bennet. You wish to speak to me?” He exited his office, careful to close it behind him.

“If it’s not too bold of me, Sir…” I trailed off, reluctant to continue.

“In the days we’ve worked together, Miss Bennet, I’ve never known you to be bashful. Out with it,” he demanded.

“Well, if you don’t mind me saying, Sir, that is one of the reasons I felt it necessary to speak to you. I feel that in some respects, I have been insolent and forceful with the changes I’ve suggested. I fear that I may have—”

“Is _that_ what’s bothering you?” He met me with an indulgent smile. “I hired you, Miss Bennet, for those precise qualities. Much as I am loath to admit it, your changes have helped revitalize the store to its former state.” He paused, waiting for me to continue. “Is there anything else?”

I was momentarily baffled by his succinct response, but I endeavored to continue. “Yes, Sir. I wanted to apologize—”

“ _More_ apologies?” He interjected.

“ _Yes_ , Mr. Chesley—”

“Call me Augustus.”

“Sir?” I faltered, losing the train of conversation completely.

He smiled and nodded. “Yes? Do continue, Miss Bennet.”

I found myself staring open-mouthed at him. There was an unusual twinkle in his gray eyes. I realized he was _intentionally_ forcing me to lose my train of thought. He seemed to enjoy playing these small games.

Very well, I thought. I decided to play a game of my own.

“Mr. Chesley,” I asserted, “As you are deliberately distracting me from my purpose, I wonder if you already surmised my reasons for speaking with you?”

He appeared hesitant. “I hope you’re not rethinking your decision to work here. You’re perhaps the only person I know who can change my mind on anything.”

“I wouldn't dream of leaving—that is, not yet.” I let the words, and the suggestion they offered, hang in the air.

I promptly turned on my heel and began gathering my things. I passed a “Farewell, Mr. Chesley,” over my shoulder as I left.

I was pleased to see a small smirk on his lips as I exited the store.

~ 

As I sit here awaiting dinner (with great reluctance—Mother has invited the young Vicar Fulton to join us), I am considering the unusual relationship I have developed with Mr. Chesley—or Augustus, as he had (more than likely) jokingly suggested I call him. It is at times antagonistic, and sometimes it feels as though I am dealing with a stubborn child, yet underneath it, there is a mutual respect for each other. It is odd, then, to consider the two drastically different personalities I work with: the tender, compassionate, and dedicated Adelajda, and the stubborn, intellectual, and at-times exasperating Augustus Chesley. What an odd collection of people we are.

I hear Mother calling. I am ill-prepared for entertaining an “eligible gentleman” this evening. No doubt you will hear about it soon.

Until tomorrow,

_Mary B._

_P.S._ She spells her name Adelajda Florczak. I’m now inspired to learn a little Polish.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this was fun! Mr. Chesley grows more and more interesting, no? :)
> 
> <3   
> Riadasti


	4. The Vicar of Wakefield

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He had one of those faces that Lydia or Kitty may swoon over—but it appeared he possessed the personality of a bedpan.

_ Friday August 10th, 1815 _

Libellus,

The past few days have been full of unpacking, cleaning, and re-organizing, which left no time at all to fill you in on any news (of which there is mostly very little, aside from an aching back and a lingering headache).

Firstly, I regret to inform you that Vicar Fulton is dull as tombs, as I suspected. He arrived at dinner precisely at seven, and despite Mother’s valiant attempts, no more than five words were exchanged between the two of us. I spent most of my time trying to engage Father in discussions about _The Life of Samuel Johnson_ by James Boswell. We were in the middle of deliberating Robert Anderson’s critical opinion of the book, when Mother interrupted (as usual).

“Mary, aren’t you curious where the Vicar is from? He tells me he hails from Wakefield. Is that not interesting?”

I did my best to swallow a retort, especially after my father gave me an encouraging (if somewhat sad) smile.

“Wakefield, yes. So am I to understand that you have a wife, Deborah, and five children?”

Vicar Fulton simply blinked at me. He had one of those faces that Lydia or Kitty may swoon over—but it appeared he possessed the personality of a bedpan. Mother gaped at me, her mouth opening and closing convulsively. I would pay for this little outburst later.

“The Vicar of Wakefield…?” I ventured, hopelessly.

Father chuckled indulgently at my elbow. “That’s our Mary. Ever the book-lover, just like her father. She’s referring to the novel by Oliver Goldsmith. I’m sure you’ve heard of it, Fulton.”

All eyes turned to the vicar, to which he replied wanly, “Why, I believe I’ve heard of it…”

“Yes, indeed!” Mother chirped brightly, doing her very best to dispel the tension in the room. “Why, Mary works at a small bookshop, don’t you Mary? She could find you this very book if you were to call upon her.”

The vicar nodded obediently and merely gazed at me with an expression of mingled embarrassment and annoyance.

And thus the evening continued, with one excruciating conversation after another. I do hope he stays away from the bookshop.

My second piece of news is that Mr. Chesley, in an unexpected moment of excitement, had ordered three large crates of the latest books from his supplier, which required Adelajda and I to frantically rearrange the entire store.

While in the midst of this exercise, I came to the sudden realization that Adelajda was spending more than her allotted shift at _Vilis Libri_ in her attempts to assist us—and yes, Mr. Chesley had actually volunteered to assist us, though he only managed to addle my wits further by countering every suggestion of mine.

I decided that however my back and head were aching, Adelajda’s must be hurting ten-fold. After all, I know that she has a second job as a cleaning woman for an elderly lady who lives down the street.

When I brought my concerns to Mr. Chesley, he merely shrugged and said “If she wants to stay, she has every right to.”

However, this rankled, and I asked to see him in his office if it pleased him.

He said it did not please him, but he still gestured me back to the room with him.

“Sir,” I began, doing my best not to ogle the clutter around me, “I am simply asking, on behalf of my friend, whether she is receiving any extra salary for the hours she is assisting us.”

He took a seat in a worn Fauteuil chair in front of his writing desk—piled high with bound novels and scraps of paper. He somewhat sheepishly indicated a tattered chaise lounge along the opposite wall. I made a mental note to ask Adelajda if she knew how to embroider (or could teach me—nothing would bring me more pain than to have to ask my mother, who has freely and loudly criticized my lack of skill with basic household tasks).

Mr. Chesley considered me for a moment, seeming to weigh his words before he spoke. “You _are_ an outspoken creature, are you not?”

I knew it was meant to derail my train of thought. Feathers well ruffled, I intoned: “Yes, Sir. My father always taught his daughters to speak their minds, and,” I continued with a bit more defiance than I anticipated, “I’m finding more pleasure in it these days.”

He laughed—a throaty, belly-shaking laugh that filled his small office. I found myself smiling despite my own frustration with this man.

“Now, Sir,” I sobered, attempting to return to the previous train of discussion.

“Yes, very _well_ ,” he heaved a dramatic sigh, placing one elbow on his crowded desk. “On the subject of Adela’s salary: _if_ sales continue to improve, she will be offered a similar position to your own. Only it will mean that you will have to share the burden of keeping this place clean.”

This discussion went much better than I had anticipated, and I left his office feeling elated.

I’ve written as much as I can remember from the past few days, but as Mr. Chesley informed us today that _another_ shipment will be arriving, I need my rest before tomorrow.

Till then,

_Mary B._

P.S. I have learned a few new Polish phrases:

 _Dzień dobry_ for good morning and _dobry wieczór_ for good night (don't they place their accents in odd positions?)

Adelajda says my pronunciation is not very good, but I hope to improve with practice!

_Saturday, August 11 th, 1815_

Libellus,

I’ve stolen a few precious moments with you in Adelajda’s cleaning closet. Why am I hiding in the closet with a candle, a half-empty inkwell, and you, my faithful leather-bound journal? Because none other than Vicar Fulton is in the bookshop at this very moment. I cannot believe he actually followed my mother’s advice. Was I not disagreeable enough towards him? What on earth am I to do in this situation?

I can hear Adelajda providing me with a flimsy excuse. “She has stepped away to take care of the new book crate, Vicar. I cannot say when she will return.”

The vicar is saying something in return but I cannot make it out through the heavy door. For a man who speaks in front of a congregation on a weekly basis, he has a tendency to mumble.

“ _The Vicar of Wakefield_. Yes, you will find that, I believe, on this shelf here.” Adelajda says.

In all my days—

~

I am mortified. In capital letters: MORTIFIED.

I waited until I returned home to fill you in on the details of this afternoon.

Last I left you, I was hiding away in the closet to avoid Vicar Fulton. I was beginning to hope he had left, when I heard Mr. Chesley say, “Oh, you’re looking for Miss Bennet? She must be in her office—”

At which point, the closet door flew open, and a self-satisfied Augustus Chesley loomed over me. I had just enough time to return to my feet—my Bennet temper flaring hot as fire in my chest—before Vicar Fulton peered around Mr. Chesley into the cramped, darkened room.

“Funny sort of office,” he remarked blandly.

“Yes, I—” I began, scrambling for some explanation.

“She was taking inventory of the cleaning supplies, were you not, Mary?” Adelajda came to my rescue at once.

“Yes, precisely.”

“Come, come, Miss Bennet. You give yourself too much credit.” He turned to Vicar Fulton. “She is one of the most devout women I know, but she is too humble to ever admit it in polite company.”

“Devout, you say?” Vicar Fulton’s eyes were alit with a dangerous excitement. It was the most animated I had ever witnessed in him before.

I gave Mr. Chesley a murderous glare before correcting him. “I hardly say _devout_ , Mr. Chesley. More like introspective.”

I ventured to take Vicar Fulton by the arm and guide him safely away from any more of my employer’s interference and ensured the vicar was in possession of the novel he had requested.

Vicar Fulton was at last encouraged to leave (he showed an alarming desire to stay and discuss these supposed “devout” tendencies of mine) thanks to the swift thinking of dear Adelajda, who informed him that we had an immense amount of inventory to complete.

Mr. Chesley seemed to sense that he had stepped across some invisible line of propriety and had locked himself away in his office. I would have refused to speak to him anyway. I am only thankful for a day of rest to regain my composure before, more than likely, I will succumb to the Bennet temper and give him a piece of my mind.

That is, if I am able to survive another sermon and lunch conversation with none other than Vicar Fulton.

And to Mr. Chesley, I simply throw up my hands and say _nie rozumiem cię!_ (I do not understand you!)

Till tomorrow,

_Mary B._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two uploads in one day?? Once the writing bug hits me, I can't help myself. 
> 
> What do you think so far? I value your opinion! 
> 
> <3  
> Riadasti


	5. The Mysteries of Udolpho

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Well played, Miss Bennet.” He chuckled weakly, running another hand through his hair.

_ Monday, August 13th, 1815 _

Libellus,

Another uneventful Sunday (including lunch with the vicar). He’s demonstrating an alarming tendency to stare at me, as if my “devout” tendencies are written on me as plain as the features on my face. One has to wonder what he hopes to accomplish by courting a Bennet girl. I have no dowry to speak of and no real social connections (aside from Bingley and Darcy, but they’d hardly do much for a vicar). Lydia had once enjoyed calling me the “ugly gosling” of the Bennet sisters. At the time it had stung, but one grows out of that silly self-centered nonsense of youth. I am a realist and an intellect—which is far more important than a pretty face.

But all of this aside, I still hadn’t decided what, exactly, I would say to Mr. Chesley when I arrived at work this morning. He had crossed a line. For a few paranoid hours on Sunday, I almost wondered if my own mother hadn’t put him up to the task. Was this some game to endear me to the vicar, and finally marry off the last of the unbetrothed Bennet daughters?

My realism quelled these irrational fears when I realized Mother was too proud to speak to the likes of Augustus Chesley, who made only 300 pounds a year (which could hardly be considered “auspicious” in light of Bingley and Darcy’s yearly earnings).

I entered _Vilis Libri_ this morning, still no closer to formulating a plan of action in addressing my employer.

However, a plan struck me in full force when my eyes fell upon a specific shelf. _Robinson Crusoe_ taunted me from its perch among a smattering of books. He had played his game again, and I was about to repay him two-fold.

I went about my usual business of the morning, busying myself with new copies of _The Mysteries of Udolpho_ by Ann Radcliffe. I tried not to wrinkle my nose at these novels, keeping a firm grasp on the truth that despite their inane romantic nonsense, they sold quickly and made a decent profit for the store. I began shelving them and made a note that we needed to order more of her other popular novel, _The Romance of the Forest_.

It was at this point that Mr. Chesley arrived, exiting his personal abode above the shop with a hurried pace. He said nothing and entered his office—almost as if he was avoiding me entirely.

I spent the rest of the day hoping he would exit the office to observe my handiwork, but he only exited his room twice, and only to return with his breakfast and supper. It was a particularly slow, rainy afternoon, and so I busied myself with Adelajda in making plans to reupholster the three, heavily faded tapestry chairs in front of the fire.

My satisfaction did not come until Adelajda had left for the day, and it was nearly time for me to depart as well.

Mr. Chesley exited his office with a purposeful stride, but his eyes ventured toward his favorite shelf. From the corner of my eye, I saw his gaze wander to the prose section (between De Cervantes and Fielding) and again to me with incomprehension.

“Miss Bennet,” he said, his tone apprehensive.

I glanced up and widened my eyes, hoping I was the picture of innocence.

“Where is my _Libellus_?”

I squinted at him, “I beg your pardon, Sir?”

“My _Libellus_. You know very well which one.” He squared his shoulders toward me, and I was momentarily afraid I would lose my nerve. But the memory of Saturday’s mortification spurred me onwards.

“Ohhh, you mean _Robinson Crusoe_. Yes, I remember.” I turned back to my desk, pretending that I believed the discussion to be over.

“Miss Bennet,” he said again, this time taking several steps towards my seated figure.

“Yes?” I glanced up, assuming my most naïve expression.

“Where is it?”

I glanced at the ceiling, presumably deep in thought. “Well…” I spoke slowly, wanting this process to be as painstaking as possible. “Is it not in the prose section, Sir?”

“I have looked,” his voice was beginning to sound a little panicked. “It is not where it should be.”

“That’s very odd, Sir.” I stood from my desk, sidestepping him and taking close scrutiny of the entire prose section twice.

A growl of agitation escaped him, and I turned to him—genuinely shocked.

“You haven’t done something as addle-brained as selling it, have you?”

My temper was rising dangerously, but I kept my tone as bland as Vicar Fulton’s personality. “I assumed that all books in the store were for sale.”

“Not that one…” his voice trailed off.

“Let me check my records.” I returned to my seat and moved at an agonizingly slow pace, considering every line on the day’s sale list. “Yes, I see here that a gentleman inquired after the book, and Adelajda made the sale.”

Mr. Chesley brought both hands to his hair and raked through it, destroying a valiant attempt at a Bedford Crop style. His face paled, and I feared he was in danger of passing out.

“Sir—oh, Sir!” I retrieved the small novel from my desk drawer and ran to him, alarm clouding my resolve to remain passive. “Here it is. Please, forgive me, I—well, I was being childish and wished to repay you for Saturday’s events.”

He snatched the novel from my outstretched hand and clutched it to his chest, the color slowly returning to his cheeks. After a few deep breaths, his eyes found my face once more, and I could see the beginnings of amusement there.

“Well played, Miss Bennet.” He chuckled weakly, running another hand through his hair.

“I do apologize, Sir, but—well, you know you deserved it.” I couldn’t help this final jab at him, and he was good-natured enough to laugh.

“I was monstrous on Saturday. Incidentally, has that vicar proposed to you yet?”

I bit back another retort, as he was still quite pale from the shock I had given him. Instead, I turned the conversation to something more practical.

“Sir, why is that novel on the shelf if it is not for sale? I must admit that I know about the inscription.” I cleared my throat and indicated the bookcase nearest his office. “Why not display it here, on your favorite shelf? And perhaps place a likeness of your grandfather beside it? It could be a sort of tribute in his honor.”

Several emotions played across Mr. Chesley’s features in that moment, and I can scarce recall what they may have been. I wondered if I had stepped across another line, and waited with held breath for his reaction.

“That would be a lovely idea, Mary—Miss Bennet.” He walked slowly to his office, turning to me once he reached the door. “I’ll leave it on your desk, and you can take care of it in the morning.”

I flushed suddenly, realizing I had just spent the better part of an hour alone with him in the shop with no chaperone or Adelajda to bring propriety to the interactions taking place. My mother would be mortified if she knew.

“Yes, it’s getting late. My parents will be asking for me.”

“And no doubt your vicar,” Mr. Chesley said as he entered his office.

I glared after him for a brief moment, before plastering a smile across my features when he turned and nearly caught me in the act.

“ _Dobry wieczór_ , Mr. Chesley,” I said as I gathered my things.

“It’s Augustus, Miss Bennet. And your Polish is improving.”

“Thank you. And good night, _Mr. Chesley_ ,” I said.

As I closed the door to the shop behind me, I heard him shout “Augustus!”

I can smile now, Libellus. I am relieved that part of this is over (though I still wish I could berate him for what he did with the vicar) and that the silly game we played with his precious book can finally come to an end. Perhaps life will resume its normal pace again.

One can only hope,

_Mary B._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Five chapters? This story is growing!
> 
> Leave some comments for me, please! Always happy to hear what you think so far.
> 
> <3  
> Riadasti


	6. The Romance of the Forest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “All similarities to Pierre la Motte aside, what are your vices, Mr. Chesley?”

_ Friday, August 17th, 1815 _

Libellus,

Six. That is the number of visits I have received from Vicar Fulton this week alone.

He visited the shop twice and was emboldened to invite himself over for dinner four times. _Four!_

I swear on the soul of Samuel Pepys that I do not know what to do with him. He is sweet and biddable—qualities that some women would find attractive in a potential mate. But not this Bennet. I have no patience for someone who bends to my every whim and who—well, frankly has very little book learning (which is surprising, for a man of the cloth).

But no matter how cold I am to him, it only seems to encourage him further. I bemoaned my plight to Adelajda one afternoon after the vicar’s second visit to the store.

“What does one do with an unwelcome suitor? I am a stranger to this type of predicament. I tell you truly, I am beyond my wits.”

She glanced over her shoulder at me, “Why not tell him you are not interesting?”

“That’s just it, Adelajda. He finds me _too_ interesting. He wants to know my opinion on every single comment he makes about a book I’ve suggested to him.”

“No,” she frowned, alighting to the floor from the small stepping stool. “I did not mean ‘interesting.’ Of course you are that. I meant tell him you are not _interested_. Would that not work?”

She has returned to her shelving, and I am free to sit here and ponder this for a moment. I will just tell him once and for all that I am not interested in being his wife, and that despite the strong encouragement from my mother, we really would not make a good match.

Simple as that. I’m determined to do it this very evening.

~~

I lost my nerve, Libellus. I had the perfect opportunity—Mother had purposefully asked for Father’s ‘assistance’ in the other room, leaving the two of us alone and un-chaperoned. But instead of turning to him and telling him exactly what needed to be said, I could only sit in the agonizing silence and continue with my embroidery (of which I was making an unladylike mess).

What shall I do about this? My mother is more and more convinced that the vicar and I will make a good match, but what of love?

I am laughing at myself now. Perhaps I should pick up a copy of one of those novels that Kitty and Lydia love to read, since I am obviously delving into the untrod territory of romance.

Alas, I must admit my defeat to Adelajda tomorrow.

Till then,

_Mary B._

_ Monday, August 20th, 1815 _

Libellus,

“When her mind was discomposed... a book was the opiate that lulled it to repose.”

You’ll be shocked to discover where this apt quote originated. None other than _The Romance of the Forest!_

I am, surprisingly, intrigued by it (if only to divert my attention from my utter failure in deterring Vicar Fulton’s apparent affections). Perhaps Lydia can no longer write me off as “the least romantic person in the entire world.” It has all the elements of a Shakespearean drama—a murderous villain, unrequited love, and a secret birthright.

I was enjoying another delicious chapter of this when Mr. Chesley interrupted me.

“Why, Mary Bennet. You, reading a romance novel?”

I kept my eyes directed at the page and retorted, “An intellectual should be acquainted with all forms of literature, even if it is a sordid romance.”

He laughed at this and said, “Well spoken. And I suppose you haven’t drawn the obvious parallels between the unrequited affections between Louis and Adeline to the honorable Vicar Fulton and one Mary Bennet?”

I lifted my chin at this and could only reply, “ _That_ is different.”

Mr. Chesley took a seat in front of the fireplace, as he often did on quieter days (and when he wasn't in a foul mood and cooped up in his office).

“How is it different?” He asked with a nonchalance that I sensed was false.

I grew tired of staring at the back of his head, so I brought the novel with me and joined him by the fire. “It is different because this,” I indicated the book in my hand, “is fiction. And Vicar Fulton is nothing like Louis.”

“Oh, and I suppose this quote—here let me find it for you—” at which he snatched the book from my limp grasp and thumbed through it. “Ah, yes. Here: ‘Louis, by numberless little attentions, testified his growing affection for Adeline, who continued to treat them as passing civilities.’ Ha! Does not that sound like your sweet vicar?”

Instead of countering him with an argument, I found my eyes widening as I gazed at him. “ _You_ have read it! You have read _The Romance of the Forest_!” I laughed and nearly clapped my hands at this discovery. “You nearly quoted it from memory. Why, Mr. Chesley, your taste is slipping.”

He narrowed his eyes at me before saying, “As you said. Intellectuals must expose themselves to—well, to all kinds of things” He passed it back to me. “It’s not a terrible book, after all.”

I flipped through the first few pages and stopped on one section in particular. “‘Pierre de la Motte was a gentleman, descended from an ancient house of France. He was a man whose passions often overcame his reason, and, for a time, silence his conscience; but, though the image of virtue, which Nature had impressed upon his heart, was sometimes obscured by the passing influence of vice, it was never wholly obliterated.’ There, doesn't that describe you perfectly?”

He grunted noncommittally and turned back the fire with a pensive expression.

“All similarities to Pierre la Motte aside, what _are_ your vices, Mr. Chesley?”

“I’ve told you a hundred times it is Augustus, Miss Bennet. And as for my vices, you are surrounded by them.” He indicated the shelves around them with a wave of one hand.

I took this opportunity to study him while he gazed into the dying embers. He had a habit of raking his hand through his hair when he was agitated, and now it stuck up in odd angles above his head. His dark hair was graying in places (though he was only five and thirty—and despite his many claims of being an ‘old, withered bachelor’), and he had wide-set grey eyes that were often lit with an inner fire. Sometimes it was of inspiration, or joy, or, more often than not, a quick temper boiling just below the surface.

He caught my study of him, and he mimicked me by sitting up straighter in his chair and staring pointedly at my face. This conjured a small laugh from me.

“Do continue reading,” he said. “You have a fine voice for this sort of thing.” He settled back against the cushion and let his eyes drift lazily to the hearth.

“Shall I start from the beginning?”

“Wherever you please, Mary.”

“Yes, Mr. Chesley.”

“ _Augustus._ ”

I smiled to myself and turned to the front of the book.

“‘When sordid interest seizes on the heart, it freezes up the source of every warm and liberal feeling; it is an enemy alike to virtue and to taste— _this_ it perverts, and _that_ it annihilates.’”

And thus I continued, well into the afternoon. Adelajda returned from an errand to the grocers, and, insisting we continue, offered to serve us tea in front of the fire as I read aloud. I made it to chapter three before a customer entered the store, forcing us to set this little diversion aside for the time being.

I noticed that Mr. Chesley actually dozed off a few times while I read, his tea cup threatening to spill into his lap before Adelajda rescued it.

What a pleasant afternoon! I hope we have many more like it.

_Mary B._

_ Tuesday, August 21st, 1815 _

Libellus,

I arrived earlier than usual this morning, eager to set up the surprise before Mr. Chesley descended from his rooms upstairs.

Mr. Chesley’s grandfather’s likeness is back in my possession (after a few days at the jewelers, where it was placed into a new setting more befitting the man who established this store). Now, it is ready to take its rightful place on Mr. Chesley’s favorite shelf (above the newly arranged poetry section). I’ve been practicing my penmanship on the small placard that will be placed beside it. I only hope it will be worth losing an entire shelf to devote space to this fitting tribute.

I have just arranged it and have quickly returned back to my desk—I hear Mr. Chesley coming.

~

If I was expecting a fanfare, or a flood of gratitude, or even tears, I was sorely disappointed.

He entered, gave me his usual brusque “Good morning,” glanced once at the shelf, and then immediately shut himself in his office.

I confided in Adelajda later, on another trip to the grocers (using the pretense that we required more tea).

“Perhaps he does not show what he feels,” she suggested.

“I can almost always read his expressions.”

“That is not the same thing, _moja droga_.” Adelajda took my arm in hers as we made our way quickly back to _Vilis Libri_.

We missed the rain by mere moments.

Now, safely ensconced behind my desk with a fresh cup of tea, I’m pondering what she may have meant. I have plenty of time to meditate on her words, since the rain stays with us for the remainder of the day. We have had no customers (not even the vicar), and so I am forced to distract myself before I barge into Mr. Chesley’s office and demand to know what has kept him locked away all day.

Have I offended him? Did I misinterpret his agreement to my idea, and was he simply saying ‘yes’ to please me?

I catch myself before I spiral into more of these questions (especially since Mr. Chesley would hardly do anything strictly to ‘please’ me without it originating as some sort of game).

~

I am home now. Before I left the store, I went to his office door and tapped against it, offering him a cup of tea before Adelajda cleared everything away—but I was only met with silence.

I’ll try again tomorrow.

And in the meantime, I will try not to dwell on things that are out of my control—namely, _Augustus_.

_Mary B._

_P.S._ I forgot to mention that the term Adelajda used ( _moja droga_ ) means ‘my dear.’ I had to ask her what it was, as she has been using more Polish lately (partly at my request). And I don't care what he said about my pronunciation--I think it is still dreadful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so grateful to those of you who have commented on my story thus far! 
> 
> Huge shoutout to the anonymous user Noe for correcting me on an error I made in Chapter 1. 
> 
> If you're curious, you can find the entire Ann Radcliffe novel The Romance of the Forest on Google books, for free! It appears to be the original print as well. Fascinating to view the book as it may have been seen by these two (fictional) people in the 1800s.
> 
> Keep this feedback coming! I relish it!
> 
> Riadasti


	7. William Penn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Augustus will fetch someone,” I said. “He will know what to do.”

_ Wednesday, August 22nd, 1815 _

Libellus,

It is nearly nine o’ clock, and there has been no sign of Adelajda. Mr. Chesley still refuses to answer my knocks at his office door. I’m rightfully confused by his behavior, but I’m doubly concerned for Adelajda. She is always on time, usually arriving early. Her punctuality and steadfast companionship have been stalwarts through all of Mr. Chesley’s stormy moods.

The more I stare at his closed door, the angrier I become. It is now half past nine. Something must be wrong, and I will not wait around for my unpredictable employer to pull himself together. I’ll burst into his office and pull him out kicking and screaming if I must.

~

As expected, I gave into my temper and went through with my plan. It took me very little time at all to rush into his office and begin filling his ears with a fierce tirade.

“Mr. Chesley, I don’t know what is going on, but this has carried on long enough. Now, perhaps this is my fault—maybe I overstepped my role when I insisted on the idea for giving tribute to your grandfather. That appears to be when all of this moping began. However, we don’t have time to discuss it now.” My voice softened as fresh anxieties swept over me. “I’m worried about Adelajda, and I need your help.”

Mr. Chesley sat up from his chaise lounge with a sluggishness that startled me. He had dark circles under his eyes. I was tempted to rush forward and catch him, fearing he would topple to the floor at any moment. He said nothing but gazed at me with a mixture of confusion and consternation.

“Before you say anything, I want you to come out of this office, go upstairs, and clean yourself off. We can deal with whatever this is later.” I indicated his rumpled appearance with one wave of my hand.

When he still said nothing, I stepped forward and hesitantly placed a hand on his shoulder. “Please, Sir,” I asked, using the softest tone I could manage in my frazzled state of mind.

He gingerly reached up and grasped my hand, pressing it firmly. He nodded slowly, almost imperceptibly, and made his way from the office.

While he readied himself upstairs, I prepared a quick pot of tea and forced this, as well as two cucumber sandwiches, into his hands the moment he returned. He took these reluctantly, but with some prodding on my part, he finished every drop of tea and crumb of food. I was pleased to see a touch of his old fire returning behind his eyes, but I didn’t have time to waste examining him. I had a strong feeling that time was of the utmost importance. Something in the pit of my stomach felt as heavy as a stone, and it spurred me to move faster.

Despite my rapid pace, I could hardly keep up with Mr. Chesley. Though he is roughly my height (and I am no towering figure, after all) he outdid me by several strides. Perhaps he was growing as worried as I was, even through his haze.

He led me to Adelajda’s home—a three-room space in the lower floor of a square, squat building. He knocked, and I felt my pulse quicken in the silent moments that followed.

Swift steps were heard on the other side, and a frazzled, pale Adelajda greeted us. The moment she saw us, her large eyes filled with tears, and she appeared to sway slightly on her feet. Mr. Chesley caught hold of her arm and gently led her to a chair beside the door. I entered, taking very little stock of the dimly lit interior before closing the door behind us.

“What has happened, my friend? Are you ill?” I was at her side in a moment, peering into her face through the gloom.

I glanced up at Mr. Chesley, but he seemed to have anticipated my thoughts and was already moving to add a log to the fading fire.

“M-my grandmother,” she said between sobs. “She is sick, and I do not—do not have the funds for a doctor!”

“Nonsense,” I said. “Of course you do.” I reached for my pocket, but Mr. Chesley stopped me.

“Put that purse away, Mary. I’ll return as quick as I can.” And with that, he practically leapt through the door and into the street.

I am no nursemaid, but I did my best to tend to Adelajda. I fetched a glass of water and urged her to press a damp cloth to her forehead. Her hair was plastered to her temples and her usually rosy cheeks appeared sunken and wan.

“Augustus will fetch someone,” I said. “He will know what to do.”

We waited for half an hour, and he returned with Doctor Cuthbert in tow. I helped Adelajda to her feet, and she guided us to the back room where her grandmother was resting fitfully in her bed.

Doctor Cuthbert said she was running a shockingly high fever. He wished to consult with Adelajda, and we gave them privacy.

I started the process of making a fresh pot of tea while Mr. Chesley sat at a plain wooden table in the corner of the kitchen. I glanced around me, noting the cracked plaster of the bare walls, the humble, sparse furnishings, and the cramped quarters. Nevertheless, there was a glass vase of fresh flowers on the table, and cheerful, yellow curtains hanging over the kitchen window.

“Did you always know that she lived in such a place?”

He fixed me with an impenetrable expression. “‘Such a place,’ Mary? These are fine living quarters for a woman who had nothing to her name but the clothes on her back. I think you are too far removed from the struggles of everyday people to realize just how well she is doing.”

I swallowed the defensive remarks bubbling up in my throat. I could only manage to say, “I am not _that_ wealthy, you know. Why else would my parents allow their unwed daughter to work in a bookshop?”

“That may be the case,” he said, his tone relaxing, “but you are still privileged enough to have both your parents living and to be able to live under their roof.”

The juxtaposition of my circumstances and Adelajda’s hit me with full force in that moment. The walls of our home are whitewashed and wood-paneled. There are paintings adorning nearly every wall. Even though they are not of the finest quality, we were blessed enough to inherit a large portion of our furnishings from my grandfather. Compared with the Darcys and the Bingleys of the world, the Bennets appear poor, bordering on impoverished.

But a Polish immigrant, who is the primary caretaker of her grandmother, would count herself blessed a hundred-fold to have the circumstances I possess.

Mr. Chesley was emboldened to take my hand in his. It was apparent he could read he dismay and remorse on my face. We spoke simultaneously:

“I’m so sorry—”

“Do forgive—”

We shared a smile, and I nodded to encourage him to speak first.

“I _have_ been childish this week, Miss Bennet. Can you forgive an old man his pride and—his reticence to show how truly, utterly appreciative he is of the gesture you made for his grandfather?”

I pressed his hand gently. “Only if you cease this nonsensical talk of you being an ‘old man.’” I withdrew my hand, suddenly overcome with self-consciousness. “And I wanted to apologize in case I stepped over any—professional boundaries between us. And for speaking with such ignorance just now.”

His brow furrowed briefly, and then he met me with his clear, grey eyes. The old fire was burning once more, and I was pleased to see it.

“We are more than employee and employer, are we not, Mary? Are we not friends?”

I was genuinely surprised by this question. “Why, of course!”

He returned my sudden smile and said, at last, “Then perhaps I will find it within me someday soon to share what has been on my mind this past week.”

The bedroom door opened, and we both stood, anxiety returning with a crushing blow at the sight of Adelajda’s tear-streaked face. The doctor shook Mr. Chesley’s hand and thanked him for calling him there so quickly. Once he departed (after Mr. Chesley insisted the bill for his services be sent to _Vilis Libri_ ), I was moved to embrace Adelajda.

“My sweet friend, is there anything we can do?”

She shook her head at my question, and she began to sway on her feet. Mr. Chesley deftly helped her into a chair, and I voiced my belief that she had not eaten in quite some time. He was quick to volunteer for the task of purchasing necessary ingredients at the grocers, and there was only a brief squabble between us as I insisted on paying for it.

Had circumstances been different, the argument would have continued for quite some time before one of us relented. I managed to sway him, for once.

We eventually ate a simple meal of bread, cold meat, and cheese, after which we departed to allow Adelajda time to rest—but only on the assurance that we would return that evening to ensure she had everything necessary.

~

I am finally home, and I am weary with the events of the day!

All things considered, Mr. Chesley and I managed to fill the remainder of our day with shelving a new arrival of books, and we resumed our daily reading of _The Romance of the Forest_ —thought it wasn’t nearly the same without Adelajda there to react in all the right places.

The air between Mr. Chesley and I has cleared considerably. And there is a new and closer bond of shared fear and anxiety for our dear friend.

I am struck, dear little book, of a quote by William Penn:

“A true friend unbosoms freely, advises justly, assists readily, adventures boldly, takes all patiently, defends courageously, and continues a friend unchangeably.”

What two completely different friends I have in Adelajda and Augustus!

I count myself blessed.

Til tomorrow,

_Mary B._

_P.S._ I'm ashamed to admit that I have begun to call my employer by his first name--but only in writing. And perhaps only when spoken about to others. I refuse to yield to his insistence that I refer to him by anything other than his surname in person!

I can count on you to keep this secret between the two of us, Libellus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seven chapters already! I have a basic outline in my head, but I can't tell you at this moment how many chapters this story will continue before it concludes.
> 
> Stay tuned! And keep giving me that precious, valuable feedback!
> 
> <3  
> Riadasti


	8. Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “For the last time,” I interrupted, “you are not an old man.”

_ Thursday, August 23rd, 1815 _

Libellus,

I stopped by Adelajda’s home on the way to the bookstore, only to find Mr. Chesley seated alone in the kitchen. I greeted him and laid the small basket of supplies on the table. My father had insisted on helping me, and he had produced a small bottle of castor oil from his medicine cabinet (where he often housed Mother’s smelling salts for when she was having supposed palpitations). He also asked one of the servants to gather a few extra blankets from around the house (if Mother knew, she would more than likely fly into one of her ‘fits,’ so we kept this strictly between the two of us). I also purchased several apples and a fresh bouquet of wildflowers. When I pulled these items from the basket, Mr. Chesley began to laugh.

“Apples and flowers!” He pointed to identical items spread out in the washbasin beneath the window.

“Then, we are of the same mind for once!”

“We may disagree on many things,” he countered, “but on all others, we are well matched, my friend.”

I felt a flush of pleasure fill my cheeks, and I turned to busy myself with placing the flowers in the vase. We lapsed into silence, and after a brief interaction with Adelajda, during which I could at least console myself of her improved spirits, we were forced to depart to prepare the store for the day.

Mr. Chesley and I walked together, and we easily fell into discussion on poetry. We were in the midst of comparing Thomas Gray and Alexander Pope when a familiar figure came into view. I attempted to quicken my pace, but Mr. Chesley was so impassioned in his train of conversation that he took little notice of the approaching gentleman.

“Miss Bennet!” Vicar Fulton greeted me, and I was forced to turn back and engage him in polite conversation. “I see a basket in your hand, which is empty. Have I caught you on some errand this morning?”

Before I could utter a word in reply, Mr. Chesley chimed in with: “Why, yes, Vicar. We were just calling upon a dear friend of ours who is unwell. Mary is stalwart in these types of visits, you see.” He smiled at me (and only I could see the humor behind the feigned civility), and I was unable to return this with an admonitory glare.

“Were you, indeed?” The vicar’s eyes were alit with pleasure at this knowledge.

I hardly remember what I said—perhaps simply that this was only the second or third visit, and that, in fact, I did not make it a regular habit. Before Mr. Chesley could cause any more damage to an already tenuous relationship, I insisted that we had to return to the store at once and bade the vicar farewell.

When we were safely inside _Vilis Libri_ , I allowed my displeasure to spill forth at last.

“Why must you say things to encourage the vicar?”

“He seems a nice fellow,” Mr. Chesley said, speaking over his shoulder as he walked into his office. “It would be a shame to disappoint him.”

“But that’s just it, Sir. Is it not _my_ choice to make?”

“Is it?” He paused, furrowing his brow in deep consideration. “I seem to recall you saying your mother is all for this match, is in fact setting her hopes entirely upon it.”

I was dumbfounded. “You, of all people—” I faltered slightly, trying to compose myself enough to speak while my mind reeled at his words. “Do you really think I would be happy with Vicar Fulton?”

He turned to face me with a sober expression. “Do you have any other prospects, my dear?”

I opened my mouth to speak but was taken aback by the cold reasoning of his question. What would happen if I turned the vicar away? Would I end up an old maid, living out my days a sad spinster? I shook my head violently at this thought.

“I am determined on this matter, Sir. I will not marry out of obligation or necessity—and especially not to someone who will not satisfy me intellectually and emotionally. He is sweet and caring, but he is _dull_ and thoroughly un-engaging. I want—well, I want someone who will—” I stopped myself short, unable to finish this thought. “The fact that you think I would accept this man simply because he is the only option tells me that you don’t really know me at all.”

This last sentence seemed to strike a chord in Mr. Chesley. His jaw tightened, and when he spoke it was through almost clenched teeth. “I will not watch you waste your years waiting for an impossible match only to end up like me, an old bachelor who—”

“For the last time,” I interrupted, “you are _not_ an old man.”

Without another word, I snatched my hat, gloves, and basket and exited the shop. I needed a breath of fresh air. I would not tolerate listening to his foolishness any longer.

It was fortuitous (or perhaps unfortunate for him) that the vicar was still ambling aimlessly in the square. I caught his gaze, and I instantly made up my mind. He caught up with me in a few lengthy strides, and we exchanged pleasantries once more. I decided to waste no more time.

“I am glad that we have this moment, Vicar. There is something I’ve been meaning to tell you.” I could not bear to look at him and instead focused on the packed dirt of the road beneath my feet. “It seems that my mother is quite keen that you and I marry.”

“Yes,” he said, “I had gathered as much.”

I wanted to laugh aloud—my mother was never a subtle woman. He would have to be blind, deaf, and dumb to have missed her intentions.

“Well, don’t you feel that there is some disparity between us?”

I bolstered my courage and turned to meet his gaze at last. He was clearly confused by my words.

I continued, “What I mean to say is that I don’t believe we would make a good match.” Before he could counter this with an obvious rebuttal, I persisted. “I believe you are under a false impression that I am this devout, obedient, sedate woman. That is precisely the type of woman that you _should_ marry, but I am far too stubborn, far too easily bored, and truthfully, not that interested in piety. We would not suit.”

My words hit him harder than I expected. I almost felt as though I could see his hopes crumbling before me, and though I did not feel any untoward affection towards him, it pained me greatly to know that I was the primary source of his current grief.

“I understand,” he said, his eyes finally dropping to the ground.

If I had any doubts about my feelings towards him, that small, sad gesture alone would have caused me to take back every word I said. But I was steadfast in my mindset on the matter.

We walked once more around the square, in complete silence. At last, we parted and exchanged the usual civilities that were expected of us—wishes for good health, and promises of future visits we never intended to keep. I watched him walk away.

Kitty and Lydia would call me a fool. Vicar Fulton _is_ handsome, and though it was possible for us to grow fond of one another through the years, I could never follow through with such a decision.

If I ever marry…I let this thought trail away. I had a notion of what I desired in a potential husband, but I could not yet put it into words.

I know my parents at one time did love one another, but they were ill-matched in terms of intelligence. So now, they spend their days in separate parts of the house and only tolerate one another at mealtimes and special occasions. They have only grown further apart over the years, especially with my mother's continued obsessions over marrying off her five daughters.

That is not the life I would choose for myself. I’d rather grow into that horrifying image of an old spinster than marry unwisely.

With a sigh, I turned and made my way back to the bookshop. Mr. Chesley was seated in front of the fire. He stood when I entered.

My mind was still weighed down, and I could only manage a soft smile in return.

It was apparent that he wished to speak his mind—was nearly itching with the desire to do so—but he sensed my heavy mood, and so he withdrew to the fire once more. I did my best to distract myself by making a fresh pot of tea, and after a moment’s hesitation, I joined him in front of the hearth. He picked up an unfamiliar book from the table between us, and he began to read.

I was grateful for his quiet understanding and settled back into the chair.

“The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, 

The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea, 

The plowman homeward plods his weary way, 

And leaves the world to darkness and to me.”

I smiled as he continued. He was reading “Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard,” one of my favorite poems by Thomas Gray. I let my mind drift and wander, gently guided by Mr. Chesley’s soft cadence.

~

Sweet, merciful heavens. It is as if I have committed treason. Or worse—it is as if I marched into my mother’s room and told her that I wished to move to the West Indes and live a celibate life in the company of the natives.

This is worse than when Lizzie rejected Mr. Collins. And worse still than when we found out Lydia had run off with Wickham.

“What are we going to do with you, Mary? _No one_ will take you now, and you will leave us _penniless_ with no hope of any future!”

My father did nothing to quell these ridiculous ramblings, of course. Perhaps it was due to his years of experience with her histrionics that he realized silence was his best weapon.

I returned home, rather worse for wear emotionally, as it has been a trying day, only to find my father waiting for me in the hallway.

“My dear, is it possible there’s something you have been keeping from us?” My father asked in his usual dry manner.

I perceived now the terrible moaning and wailing coming from my mother’s room at the top of the stairs. I braced myself, but knowing my mother, there was no way of preparing for the unending tirade of disappointments.

I could not reason nor cajole her into submission. She _would_ believe me to be a disobedient, foolhardy child, and the most selfish of daughters. In the end, I simply threw up my hands and retreated to my bedroom.

I can still hear wailing from her room nearby.

I may sleep well tonight, despite my mother’s incessant weeping. My mind and body are fatigued. Perhaps I can sneak into my father’s library and borrow his compendium of Thomas Gray’s poetry…

Till then,

_Mary B._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are getting interesting now...how long should I wait before posting the next installment? :)
> 
> <3  
> Riadasti


	9. The Four Seasons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bachelors always neglect themselves when the women are away.

_ Sunday, August 26th, 1815 _

Libellus,

I wrote to Lizzie on Friday, and I just received her letter of reply—I will soon be visiting Pemberley for five days, during which time I hope my father will speak to my mother. If she were the type to ignore someone who has ‘wronged’ her, I would much prefer it. However, she finds more pleasure in constantly dwelling on the topic at every opportunity.

Apparently she and my father had been taking a stroll towards town when they ran into the vicar—I suppose it was only moments after I had informed him of my true feelings. Regardless, my mother can sniff out a rejection from a mile away, and after a few wheedling questions, she managed to wring the truth out of him.

“And now he says he will _not_ come to dinner this evening—or any evening! Oh if _only_ Mary would come to her senses. Why must she torment me with this obstinate behavior?”

These types of statements are typically spoken at the dinner table while I am present. If I ignore her entirely and decide to strike up a conversation with Father, she only heaves a dramatic sigh and pretends to cry into her handkerchief.

I am very much looking forward to my visit to Pemberley.

I have spent the last two days attending to Adelajda and her grandmother as best I can, ensuring that they both have plenty of food and supplies to last the week. She appears to be in more hopeful spirits, as her grandmother’s health seems to be improving.

Yesterday, I was given the privilege of meeting her, at last, and (through Adelajda’s deft translation, as her grandmother speaks very little English), she insists I call her Babcia (the Polish word for grandmother). Through fits of restfulness, she appears to be a sprightly, alert woman.

“She says you are the most interesting English woman she has ever met,” Adelajda translated on behalf of Babcia.

I laughed at this and replied, “I hope that is a compliment, Ma’am,” to which Adelajda assured me it was, as I am one of the first female visitors aside from Mr. Chesley and the doctor.

Babcia said a word several times, something like “bibliotek” or “bibliothekas.” She and Adelajda conversed briefly, and she finally turned to me and said, with a smile, “She is asking after Mr. Chesley. She calls him ‘the librarian.’”

In truth, the person I am more concerned about leaving for five days is Augustus. I voiced this to Adelajda, and she assured me that she would do her best to care for him the same way he has been gracious enough to care for Babcia.

She conveyed this message to Babcia, and the older woman replied, “We will watch over him. Bachelors always neglect themselves when the women are away.”

With Adelajda home caring for her grandmother, I wonder how well my employer will handle being the sole caretaker of _Vilis Libri_. I am determined to see this journey through, however, and will not delay my visit to Pemberley for the sake of Augustus.

~

I am packing my trunk this evening, but I was surprised when a package arrived this addressed to me. When I opened it, I found a small sketchbook and a set of charcoal pencils. Attached with it was a note that read:

_Mary,_

_Perhaps, as you’ve told me you have set aside your other ‘accomplishments,’ you can experiment with drawing. I’m sure you will take to it as readily as you have taken to your writing. Don’t stay away too long, moja droga (I am learning, too). Vilis Libri will crumble to the ground without your stalwart assistance._

_Yours,_

_Augustus_

All throughout work on Saturday, he had threatened to lock himself away in his office if I left. I knew he was joking (perhaps half-joking), but I finally had endured enough of his childishness, and we did not leave on the best of terms that evening. It appears this is his form of an apology. I will accept it, gladly.

Perhaps if I am feeling magnanimous, I may even write him a letter while I am away.

Til tomorrow,

_Mary B._

_ Monday August 27th, 1815 _

Libellus,

Rest assured, I am happily and contentedly ensconced in Pemberley. Darcy and Lizzie are excellent hosts, and as the place is enormous, I was given my choice of rooms. I selected a small, private chamber (closest to their impressive library, of course) with a good view of the lake.

It strikes me as interesting how one grows fonder of family the further apart life takes you. I know that I was not a particularly pleasant sibling—far too stuffy, morose, and a bit of a know-it-all, but Lizzie and I have come to a new understanding. I have always respected and admired her outspokenness and beauty—perhaps being outspoken runs rampant in the Bennet daughters (but the beauty was not as evenly distributed). Now that she is married, I feel more at ease in her presence than any of my sisters. Jane, of course, has always been easy company.

Lizzie complimented me on my arrival, saying, “Why, Mary! You seem changed, more contented. Happy, even.”

I smiled and thanked her, accepting Darcy’s assistance as I alighted from the small cab they paid for. I was grateful not to have to take the mail coach or hire a hansom cab, which can be shockingly expensive for any journey. I have always been in awe of Pemberley, and when Darcy suggested I take a walk to stretch my legs, I happily complied. He walked beside us as Lizzie and I caught up on the most recent events.

Of all of my sisters, I knew she would understand the most about my turning down Vicar Fulton—or rather, speaking my mind preemptively to avoid rejecting a proposal he might have made.

Lizzie’s lips quirked at this news. “I’m sure Mother was beside herself.”

I assured her she was—and perhaps worse than on any other similar circumstance in the life of the Bennet daughters.

“But, of course, I am the last unwed daughter. I do believe they are worried I will end up a spinster. Better that than to marry unwisely.”

Lizzie turned to face me fully, resting one hand on my arm as she spoke with her characteristic earnestness. “Mary, you did the right thing. No one should marry out of obligation. It’s more important to examine the workings of your own heart before you consider _any_ man as a future husband.”

Darcy shocked me by saying, “And you need not resign yourself to a life of lonely spinster-hood. Pemberley is always open to you.”

I could only offer an anemic “Thank you,” in return, as Lizzie gazed at her husband with pride and deep affection.

His words struck a chord within my own heart. I need not consider unmarried life with such bleakness. I have friends and family who will ensure that I will not finish this life’s journey alone.

“So, now,” Lizzie linked her arm with mine, and we continued our stroll around the gardens. “Tell me about this Mr. Chesley. Father has written to me, and I am bursting with curiosity.”

Darcy took this silent cue with the utmost grace and poise, and he excused himself to ensure that my rooms and trunk were attended to.

Lizzie watched him with fondness before fixing me with a questioning look.

I did my best to explain my initial impressions of my employer, and then the changes that have happened more recently.

“I count him as one of my dearest friends—and in such a short period of time, Lizzie. It is amazing how alike we are in mind, and yet we often quarrel and disagree. I have never met anyone to equal him.”

I could tell that Lizzie wished to hear more, but I changed the conversation to introduce Adelajda and Babcia.

“I think these friendships are doing you a world of good, Mary. Do you still play the pianoforte and sing as you used to?”

I looked away to hide the displeasure that no doubt filled my face. “I have decided to pursue other interests.” I cleared my throat as it tightened involuntarily. “Mr. Chesley has given me a sketchpad and wants me to try drawing. I am enjoying writing as a new hobby…”

And so our conversation continued until we returned indoors, the heat becoming too unbearable.

Lizzie, knowing me too well, left me to ‘get settled’ in my room, and she assured me that they would call for her when supper was ready. I was grateful for the time to sit down and fill you in on my visit so far, Libellus.

Tomorrow has been set aside as a day of ‘rest and contentment,’ as Lizzie described it (which is exactly what I need). Wednesday she wishes for me to accompany her into town. She wants to try her hand at dressmaking, and so we will be shopping for supplies.

I hear the bell being rung for dinner—till later, my friend.

_Mary B._

_ Tuesday, August 28th, 1815 _

Libellus,

Today has been filled with quiet hours of reading, walks by the lake, and pleasant company. I am determined to soak in every moment of peace while at Pemberley, which may mean my entries will become smaller and smaller. But rest assured, life is full at the moment, and I am eternally grateful for my sister and her stoic (but quietly compassionate) husband.

_Mary B._

_P.S._ I am attempting to sketch Pemberley, but I am making poor work of it. I must cry “Come, Inspiration!” and hope that James Thomson’s _The Four Seasons_ will inspire some skill in these useless hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a shorter chapter than usual, but TRUST ME- a bigger one is coming, my friends.
> 
> (I just can't make myself wait any longer between posting chapters. Let me know what you think of this one!)
> 
> <3  
> Riadasti


	10. Bertram's Books

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I’ve never been very adept at handling my stronger emotions. Will you forgive me for my childishness?”

_ Wednesday, August 29th, 1815 _

Libellus,

By all the stars above, you will never guess whom Lizzie and I encountered on our trip to town. We were exploring the market stalls, examining bolts of fabric and considering whether or not they would be suitable for a novice dressmaker. She was debating the purchase of a delicate silk (an indulgence she had never enjoyed before she married Darcy), when my eyes fell on a familiar figure walking directly towards us.

“Miss Bennet, it is quite fortuitous that we should run into each other.”

“Augus—Mr. Chesley!” I nearly dropped my reticule at the sight of him.

I had a strange sensation of being back in Meryton, with _Vilis Libri_ just a short walk down the lane. My head was still reeling, but I managed to introduce him to Lizzie. She studied him openly, but he displayed no discomfort under her direct gaze.

“What brings you to Lambton?” I had a sudden, overwhelming sensation of dread wash over me. “It’s not Adelajda, is it? Please tell me Babcia—”

“Do not be alarmed, Miss Bennet!” He extended a hand to me as if to take mine, but he withdrew it quickly. “They are both quite well, I assure you. I left them with enough apples and flowers to last them the rest of the summer.”

I smiled at this humorous reference, grateful for the relief that replaced my fear.

“No, I am here on business, you could say.” He continued. “There is a bookstore in town—I’m sure Miss Bennet is familiar with it—” and here he gestured to Lizzie. “I have been in contact with the proprietor about a rare collection of books, and as another buyer was interested, I felt it only wise to rush here before I lost it entirely.”

It was odd, Libellus. I wondered if this was the only reason for his unexpected presence in Lambton…

“Lizzie, do we have time to visit the bookstore before returning?”

She nodded and encouraged the pair of us to go ahead of her, as she needed to make some more purchases.

We walked in companionable silence to our destination (called, of all things, _Bertram’s Books—_ it seemed oddly plain in comparison to _Vilis Libri_ ). I noted that the proprietor took little notice of Mr. Chesley. We browsed the shelves and, finding nothing that we didn’t already have at our own small establishment, we departed.

“You know—”

“Don’t you think—”

We spoke simultaneously, and with a short laugh, I continued: “I do believe our little bookstore has more to offer than Bertram’s.”

“Do you know, I was in the process of saying the exact same thing?” He chuckled and then glanced at me with a different sort of smile, one that was too quick for me to study before it disappeared.

We met up with Lizzie, and I was oddly pleased—elated, even—to have run into Mr. Chesley. I was reluctant to put an end to our short visit, but Lizzie interceded with her usual alacrity.

“Mr. Chesley, my husband and I would be so honored if you would join us for dinner. It seems a shame to travel all this way and not visit us at Pemberley. Do you have accommodations in town?”

He informed us that while he had left his small trunk at a nearby inn, he had not yet procured lodgings, and Lizzie informed him of the many rooms available at Pemberley. He appeared discomfited by this, and she put his mind at ease by stating that Darcy’s sister Georgiana would be visiting this evening and, “One more guest will be no trouble, I assure you.”

He was visibly flattered by this gesture, and he accepted it gladly. I hardly remember the details they established between the two of them as to when he should arrive—it could be at any moment, now that we are returned home, and all the arrangements have been made.

I am proving to be distracted company for sweet Georgiana, who is informing Lizzie and Darcy of her most recent travels to London. My eyes seem to drift to the window in the sitting room at every opportunity.

~

It is very late, but I know the Darcys have candles to spare. I must share with you—what an evening!

Earlier, I had excused myself to take a walk after tea, and Lizzie remained indoors with Georgiana (I suspect my sister knew I wished to meet my employer alone when he arrived).

On my second circuit around the expansive grounds, I heard wheels on the stone drive, and I did my best to appear as though it were merely coincidence that I wandered toward the front of the estate. Several servants assisted him with his small trunk once the carriage came to a halt.

I met him on the walkway, and he greeted me with: “You just happened to be taking a stroll at this hour?”

I lifted my chin and insisted that _yes_ , I was simply enjoying the afternoon air.

We stepped into the front hall together, and one of the servants informed us that the others were waiting in one of the drawing rooms to our left. Oddly enough, I felt more anxious than he appeared to be as we approached the open door—I could hear Georgiana’s cheerful voice and Mr. Darcy’s low reply.

When we entered, Darcy stood and shook Mr. Chesley’s hand (I realized just then how tall Darcy was—or how short Mr. Chesley was, as he stood nearly a head above my employer). He then introduced him to Georgiana, who curtseyed daintily. Lizzie spoke to him as if they were the oldest of friends, and it felt as though Mr. Chesley had always been there.

We seated ourselves across from one another in front of the window, and the company fell into easy conversation.

Darcy inquired after _Vilis Libri_ , to which Mr. Chesley replied, “It wouldn’t hurt to keep it closed for another day. Besides, I was due a small vacation. I haven’t taken one in—goodness, it’s been years.”

Georgiana asked if he sold any pieces for pianoforte, to which he glanced at me and responded that he had not thought of expanding the collections to include sheet music.

“You will have to consult Miss Bennet on the details as I trust her to know what’s best,” he said with an indulgent smile towards me.

The conversation continued, until Lizzie suggested I provide Mr. Chesley with a tour of their home before supper. I gladly accepted, and I led us both out of the room and down the corridor.

I almost lost my way several times, but nearby servants would direct us where we needed to go. We finished the tour by exploring the large portrait gallery that ran the length of the estate in the upper floor. We had fallen into informal banter, as we always did, but when we entered the tall, imposing room, it felt as though a reverent hush fell over the both of us.

It was a few moments before Mr. Chesley spoke again.

“Miss Bennet, I have wanted to share something with you for quite some time.”

“Oh?” I responded, truly oblivious to what this might be.

“Well, it strikes me that I never explained my behavior—when was it? Weeks ago, I imagine.” He clasped his hands behind his back as we came to a stop in front of a large painting of a man on horseback. “I’ve never told you about my grandfather, have I?”

I shook my head and motioned toward a pair of Louis XV chairs. This was quite an upgrade from our usual perch in front of the hearth at _Vilis Libri_. And these chairs were far more comfortable.

I allowed him the silence it required to collect his thoughts before he took a deep breath and tumbled into his lengthy explanation (I will try to summarize parts of his story, as I cannot recall precisely everything).

“My grandfather was named Antoine Chesson. Where my parents changed their surnames to Chesley once we emigrated France, he retained Chesson and was proud of his heritage. He fought in the War of the Austrian Succession—I don’t recall the name of the battle he was involved with, but it was brutal. It nearly broke his spirit.” He paused here, swallowing hard before continuing.

He spoke of his grandfather’s lengthy recovery after the war, and how he found solace in books. This inspired him to open his humble bookstore. Augustus mentioned his mother and father, but he paused, having some difficulty speaking.

He grew silent for several moments before saying, “I’m not quite ready to tell that story. Needless to say, I grew up here with Grand-père and helped him with the store. He always wished for me to travel, but I was content to explore the world through the books that surrounded me. It was his greatest regret that he could not travel as he wished, and I believe he left me his cherished copy of _Robinson Crusoe_ after he died in the hopes that it would inspire me to do what he could not.”

I so wanted to take his hand in that moment, Libellus. But instead I kept my eyes trained on the portrait in front of us and waited for him to lead the conversation.

“And so when you made the tribute to him, I suppose it all flooded back to me—I was nearly paralyzed with grief. I’ve never been very adept at handling my stronger emotions. Will you forgive me for my childishness?”

I turned to him, startled to find that there were tears in his wide eyes.

I had no time to think of my words before they tumbled out of my mouth. “There’s nothing to forgive, Augustus.”

We sat there for several quiet moments before he wiped at his eyes and stood to his feet. I wanted to stay in there a while longer, to muster up the courage to thank him for sharing something so personal with me, but it appeared he wished to move onto a more cheerful topic.

“Shall we create stories about these imposing figures that surround us, Mary? What should we say about this young lad here?” he indicated a florid, exaggerated portrait of a man in hunting gear.

I joined him and speculated aloud that perhaps he had been thrown from his horse and lost his hounds, and that the fox he hunted was now chasing him. This was a new type of game, and I enjoyed the diversion. It seemed to lighten both of our moods considerably. Our laughter echoed back to us in the portrait hall.

We returned to the drawing room, and Georgiana delighted us a piano work by Haydn and several German art songs, which were unfamiliar to me. For once, I was able to sit and enjoy this young girl’s unmistakable talent without lamenting my own lack of skill. When asked by Lizzie if I would delight the gathered company with a piece, I declined and spoke truthfully when I said it was no longer an area of interest for me. Lizzie gave me a sad, knowing smile, but she did not push the subject any further.

Mr. Chesley engaged Georgiana in easy conversation about her continued difficulty in procuring the latest sheet music. He insisted that he would look into it and see if there wasn’t something he could do.

In the relaxed discussions that followed, I was again struck by how well Augustus assimilated into the present company. This sensation followed us for the rest of the afternoon and into the evening. I’ve never seen Darcy more amiably engrossed in conversation. All in all, it was one of the most pleasant days I've spent at Pemberley, and I think Augustus has some part in that.

I am sure that there is more to tell, but I am afraid I may fall asleep in the middle of writing this.

Til tomorrow,

_Mary B._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've arrived at chapter 10! Our two oblivious characters move closer and closer to each other without realizing it. I wonder what will happen next...?
> 
> <3  
> Riadasti


	11. The Friday to His Crusoe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pull yourself together, I chided myself and retraced my steps.

_ Thursday, August 30th, 1815 _

Libellus,

Despite my late hour, and all of the excitement of yesterday, I find I am awake quite early this morning. I dressed myself and made my way to the library. I’m looking out over the lake this morning and wondering at the happenstance of finding Augustus in Lambton yesterday. I wonder

~

I had to abandon my writing for the moment as the very man I was pondering entered the library. I am writing this tonight at the end of the day, as I have had little time to do so before now.

Here is what happened:

I was busy scribbling away and didn’t notice him till he said, “Now, why was I not shown this room yesterday?”

I jumped, dropping my quill to the floor. He apologized for startling me and approached to retrieve it.

“I suppose it slipped my mind with your unexpected arrival yesterday.” I thanked him when he returned my quill to me, and he stood across the small table I was using as a writing desk.

He was quiet for a moment before he began to wander around the room, exploring the collection that lined the walls around us. He marveled at numerous first editions and original copies of books and manuscripts. He pulled down a copy of _Thomaso, or The Wanderer_ by Thomas Killigrew and asked if I would be disturbed if he stayed. I assured him that he could remain but only if he consented to read the work aloud.

He smiled, seated himself across from me, and began:

“‘What? The death of the brave General has begot discourse and change in Madrid; I hear the Action too, though most Noble, traduc’d by his Enemies; Wretches that dust not look up on the dangers his gallant Mind broke through daily…’”

And so our morning continued, until we were summoned for breakfast.

He thanked Lizzie and Darcy for being such gracious hosts, and he regretted having to leave so soon from their company.

“We must come and visit you at _Vilis Libri_ ,” Darcy said, shaking Mr. Chesley’s hand with a warm smile as we stood outside Pemberley.

Lizzie and Georgiana thanked him for his visit, and they departed inside with Darcy.

“This feels like a farewell, but I will see you again in just two days,” I said, wishing I could express more fully how unexpected and pleasant his visit had been.

Augustus took my hand in his and kissed it. “I will do my best to ensure the establishment is still standing when you return.”

I withdrew my hand, overly conscious of the contact between us. “I should hope so. No doubt the ashes will be piling up the hearth, and dust will have coated every surface imaginable without Adelajda and I there to tidy up.”

He laughed, “I admit, my cleaning skills are not up to Mary Bennet standards, but I will do my best.”

We lapsed into silence—so much so that the horses fidgeted behind us in their reigns, and the coachman cleared his throat. We stood there, neither of us wanting to be the first to say goodbye.

He eventually sighed and said, “Well, I mustn’t delay any longer.”

Perhaps I was only imagining it, but I felt that my own regret at his departure was mirrored in the tone of his voice.

He stepped into the open carriage, and just when the coachman snapped his whip, I cried out, “Safe travels, Mr. Chesley!”

He turned back and shouted, “Augustus!” and waved as the carriage disappeared around the bend in the drive.

~

I’m writing quite late this evening and am unsure what is causing my restlessness.

The rest of the day was spent assisting Lizzie with her attempts at dressmaking. Perhaps my encroaching departure has me filled with a mixture of excitement and dread—excitement at the prospect of returning to my work at _Vilis Libri_ (I have missed my daily routine) and the dread of finding my mother in the exact state I left her. Surely she will have moved onto other more pressing matters, such as Kitty’s encroaching nuptials in a few months.

I have received the brunt of all of her silliness for the past few months due to Kitty’s extended visit (almost full residency) in London with Jamie’s parents. They were gracious enough to agree to her visit so that she could become more acquainted with them. Now that I think about it, I haven’t written her in a while. I am not as swift with my replies to their correspondence as I should be—and I _have_ been distracted with recent life changes. I’ll remedy this as soon as I return tomorrow.

It is foolish, Libellus, but this evening my thoughts have been filled with memories of my conversation with Augustus in the portrait hall. Perhaps it’s simply the prolonged shock of his presence at Pemberley—witnessing him in an entirely new setting among my family. It was pleasant (surprisingly so), but it was still a little unseltting. Perhaps my mind is occupied with thoughts of him tonight due to Lizzie and Georgiana’s insistence on bringing him into our topic of conversation all through dinner. Even Darcy participated. The common theme was that they enjoyed his company so thoroughly that they wished he would return soon.

Whatever the cause for this distractedness, I will simply have to soothe my thoughts tonight with more of Killigrew’s _Thomaso_ until I can drift to sleep.

Til tomorrow,

_Mary B._

_ Friday August 31st, 1815 _

Libellus,

I am home at last, and though Mother still pretends to experience pain at the mere sight of me, she is less vocal about her displeasure. I can at least enjoy dinners again with Father.

As promised, I took some time this evening to catch up on my correspondence. I wrote a brief letter to Kitty, wishing her well, and I even penned a short note to Lydia. No doubt I would receive a request for money in the form of a genuine reply from Lydia, but I felt guilty that I had never written to her in all this time. More importantly, I wrote a lengthy letter to Lizzie, instructing her to extend my warmest thanks to Darcy and his dutiful servants for allowing me to stay and for accommodating an unexpected guest. For dear Jane, I sent what may appear to be the beginnings of a novel. I have not seen her in some months, and so I had much to tell her.

I wanted to check on Adelajda this evening, but she anticipated my desires and sent a letter to our home while I was away. It reads:

_Mary,_

_I know you are away, but I wanted you to find this note when you returned. Please be at ease when I tell you that my babcia is doing so well, thanks to the help from you and Mr. Chesley (the ‘_ _Bibliotekarz,’ as you remember_ _). Visit when you can, but rest yourself when you return—do not rush to see me and risk losing sleep. You are my dear friend, and I do miss you._

_Love,_

_Adelajda_

I smiled, looking forward to visiting her at the earliest convenience tomorrow. I was grateful, as well, that my return to work would be on a less busy day. I have a feeling the store will have grown quite messy in mine and Adelajda’s absence.

I am exhausted with the journey home, and no doubt I will have my work cut out for me tomorrow.

Til then,

_Mary B._

_ Saturday, September 1st, 1815 _

Libellus,

I visited Adelajda first this morning and found, exactly as Augustus promised, a large stock of fresh apples in the kitchen pantry and bouquets of wildflowers decorating every surface of the small lodgings. Babcia greeted me with a warm smile, and her color was much improved.

Adelajda translated her greeting, saying, “She says you look rosy and refreshed, _moja droga_.”

I asked Adelajda to tell Babcia that the same compliment could be returned in full. She looked in better spirits as well. She had taken up knitting once more (a favorite pastime of hers, according to her granddaughter), and I made a mental note to purchase more thread the next time I saw it in the market.

“Did Mr. Chesley keep you company while I was away?” I asked.

Adelajda gave me a small, knowing smile. “Yes, and he left plenty of supplies before he went to visit you.”

“No, but—” I began, suddenly flustered. “He said that he was purchasing a book…” My voice faded, and I was suddenly reminded of a niggling little doubt that had been festering in the back of my mind.

He hadn’t traveled to Lambton on that specific day during my visit simply by “happenstance.” It was purposeful.

“How many days did he stay away?”

Adelajda considered for a moment and said “At least three, I think.” She consulted with Babcia, who confirmed this.

Three days. He had been there an extra day, simply hoping to run into me in the market. That must mean that his sole reason for traveling to Lambton was _not_ to purchase a rare set of books, but to see...me.

_Me_! Mary Bennet!

Before I could adequately make sense of this news, I felt Adelajda slip her arm through mine and rest her head against my shoulder,

“I can see you are confused now, _moja kochanie,_ but give him time and he will make it known to you. He cannot be rushed, you know.” She smiled up at me, and I could only nod weakly in reply.

My head was so full of questions that I barely registered saying goodbye to her or even walking down the lane to the store. Why would he not tell me—even during our intimate discussion in the portrait gallery? And what does this really mean, this purposeful visit to Lambton?

I glanced up and realized I had walked past _Vilis Libri_ in my distraction.

_Pull yourself together, Mary Bennet,_ I chided myself and retraced my steps to the store front.

I took a deep breath and used my key to enter the bookstore.

I am sitting down now to write this, after cleaning and restoring the place to rights.

I was honestly expecting chaos, but what I found was merely a bit more dust than usual, a few teacups that needed washing, and an odd scattering of ashes near the hearth (this, I assumed, was due to Mr. Chesley’s clumsy attempts at emptying it).

He had done as he promised. The man aggravates me to bits, but our friendship has developed into something more meaningful over the past month. He met me as an equal, and he never made me feel like the talentless know-it-all that I viewed myself as.

It wasn’t the spur of fiery passion or the instant attraction I felt when I met Mr. Collins—this _something_ with Mr. Chesley has always felt natural. In many ways, I feel as though I’ve always known him. And perhaps it wasn’t until Pemberley that I considered it could be something more than just a friendship

~

I must tell you (now that I am home) what happened when Mr. Chesley came down to the store from his lodgings.

I was scribbling away in my journal, in the middle of a very important sentence, when he said, “You seem troubled by something, Miss Bennet.”

I glanced up at this, and it appeared he had been standing there studying me for a few minutes. There was the oddest expression on his face—equal parts relief and sadness. This baffled me even further, and I had no immediate voice to reply.

When I said nothing, he approached and stood above me, concern clearly lining his face.

“Are you unhappy to return to work? If you need more time—”

“No, I’m so happy to be here, truly!” I corrected him, but my mind was still in turmoil.

“Has something happened with Babcia?”

“No, it’s…” I faltered, wondering how I could possibly voice what I was feeling.

“I saw your vicar Monday. He came wishing to speak to you.”

I’m not sure what I expected him to say, but this knocked me off my balance—despite the fact that I was sitting down.

Mr. Chesley shifted his weight beside me. “Has he…has he proposed at last?”

I met his gaze sharply, “Of course not! And if he did, I would say no. I told him that we would not suit.”

This statement appeared to knock him back with physical force. “Mary Bennet! You did not!”

Libellus, if I were a more irrational creature, I may have slapped him. Was he actually condemning me for this decision? Was he—after intimating the strength of his possible affections more than once—even now wondering why I would choose the vicar?

I stood to my feet, feeling my temper boiling up and drowning out all other emotions. This was not how I expected to be reunited with him after my lengthy time away.

“How _dare_ you, Sir! What right have you to cast judgments on my decisions? You knew that I had no affection for that man, and that we truly would never make a good match.” The words were pouring out of me in a fluid tirade. He tried to speak, but I raised my voice over his and continued. “And after you clearly had no cause to go to Lambton—after you went out of your way to find me and to insert yourself into my family—all for what? To confuse me further? To catch my attention and then to expect me, even _still_ , to marry Vicar Fulton?”

“I had hoped—I thought—” He ran a hand through his hair and let out a growl of frustration. “But Mary, I have made a mess of things as I always do.” He leaned against my desk and kept his eyes trained to the floor.

“Then tell me how you will fix it. Tell me why you traveled all the way to Lambton for _three_ days, and why there was no mention or sight of the rare books you intended to purchase?”

He was dumbstruck by this. “Adelajda told you.”

“Yes, and now I want to know why. I need you to help me make sense of this.”

He ran his hand through his hair once more and stood to pace in front of me.

“Well, of _course_ I didn’t want you to marry the vicar. I thought you too level-headed to accept him, but then again too wise to think you would find anyone else more worthy. So when the vicar came on Monday, I was afraid that you had actually gone through with it—that it was too late. And even then I didn’t realize what I meant by 'too late,' or what my heart was feeling. I left for Lambton, wishing to see you and perhaps decide once and for all to accept that you would marry someone else—but when I saw you, and when I spent time with you at Pemberley, I realized that I could never accept your betrothal, if it were true.” He met my gaze, clearly as emotionally torn as I was.

“How is this possible?” I voiced my inner thoughts aloud, wondering how both of us could be experiencing the same elation, confusion, and turmoil at the same time. Perhaps we felt this even at Pemberley.

“I don’t know when it began, Mary,” he continued, still frantically pacing back and forth. “And I know I have been pig-headed and stubborn and sometimes childish, but through all of my nonsense I still had this sensation that you and I had always been acquainted. Is that strange?” He paused now, turning towards me with his hair hiked up in wild peaks.

I would have laughed if this had not been a crucial moment.

“I felt this, too. At Pemberley.”

“You did?” Relief flooded his face, followed quickly by a hesitating smile. “I know I am not a wealthy man, nor am I easy to live with, and I am old—”

“ _Not_ old,” I corrected with one of my hardest glares. “I told you once before I would leave if you said that again, and I meant it.”

He stepped forward and gently grasped my shoulders, as if to prevent any sudden movements from me. “Very well, Mary. I can’t argue with you—well, I can…in fact, I quite enjoy it.” He smiled, but his tone was sober. “Do you think that you could be the Friday to my Crusoe, Mary?”

I gazed at him, staring into familiar eyes that were alit with a new type of fire—set ablaze by _me_. I could hardly believe the words that had just passed his lips, and it was several moments before I found my voice.

“I would be honored, Mr. Chesley.”

“It—is—Augustus!” He gently shook my shoulders, but a wide grin filled his face.

Then he stepped back suddenly and said, “I must write to your father at once!”

Without another word, he shut himself in his office, and I was left to stand beside my desk with a flush rising to my cheeks.

I am engaged to Augustus Chesley.

Happy, elated, and all synonyms in between,

_Mary B._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DON'T GO AWAY! There will be more chapters to follow, I promise!
> 
> What do you think? Tell me your thoughts.


	12. The Lady of the Lake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Augustus shot a wide smile at me over his shoulder as he left—there was only the smallest hint of panic.

_ Sunday September 2nd, 1815 _

Libellus,

There is more to tell from Saturday, so I will waste no time!

The morning was spent with me, in a happy daze, wandering round the store and dusting here and there. Augustus exited his office (almost as if he took a running start) and shouted over his shoulder that he needed to post a letter.

When he returned, I had distractedly made a fresh pot of tea (with too many scoops of tea leaves as I lost count) and we sat in front of the fire, awaiting the day’s first customers.

It is perhaps the first and only time that Augustus and I were speechless around each other. There was much to say, but we simply gazed into the flames, or at each other, and sipped too-strong tea.

The day began at last when a family of three entered, wishing to find some novels for their young son. I retrieved a copy of _A Little Pretty Pocket-Book_ and _Goody Two-_ Shoes, both published by John Newbery. The young boy was enchanted with the drawings in each volume, and after I offered a slight discount for both, the family purchased the two children’s books and departed.

The morning slipped quickly into afternoon, and someone I never expected came to visit us.

“Hello, my dear,” a familiar voice said behind me as I stoked the fire. I turned and caught the humorous glint in his eyes.

“Why, Father! What brings you here?”

“I just received the strangest letter.” He held it up between us. “It informs me that you are betrothed to Mr. Chesley, and would I give my blessing?”

I turned to him, no doubt with a face suffused with blushes. “It’s true, Father.”

He nodded once, his face sober. “Then I must meet this man you’ve been telling me so much about and see for myself, shall I?” He spoke with his usual gentle tone, but the twinkle in his eyes told me he found the entire affair amusing.

I went and knocked on Mr. Chesley’s office door and called his name.

He opened it with a flash and was in the midst of correcting my use of his surname, when his eyes fell on my father’s figure by the door. He did not recognize him, but he could read my expression plain as day.

My father stepped forward. “Ah, so _this_ is the man who has stolen Mary’s heart, is it?” He said, with his most sardonic tone.

To his credit, Augustus did not cower away from this remark. Instead, he met him with a firm handshake and said, “I will do my best to protect it, Sir. It is wonderful to finally meet you, Mr. Bennet.”

“You as well, Chesley. Let’s take a stroll.” He indicated the door and was in the process of exiting it before my employer could refuse.

Augustus shot a wide smile at me over his shoulder as he left—there was only the smallest hint of panic.

I have to tell you, Libellus, that it was a nerve-shattering half hour. I straightened the bookstore, dusted, and straightened again, and finally the pair of them returned and spoke a few words just outside the door. I strained my ears to hear them, but my father shook hands and departed soon after. I waited anxiously inside, keeping one eye on Augustus while I assisted a customer.

A new customer entered, and I was momentarily disappointed by the interruption, even though it meant business for the store.

Augustus leaned his head out of his door and said, “Miss Bennet, can I see you in my office?”

I quickly excused myself to the customer, eager to find out what had transpired on their short walk together. I shut his office door behind me, and before I could utter a word, Augustus had wrapped his arms around me. I let out a small yelp of surprise before I felt myself returning his embrace. No one had ever hugged me so tightly before.

I laughed, with only a touch of nervousness. “I take it the conversation went well, then?” I said against his ear, relishing the unexpected closeness.

He stepped back and then took my shoulders and slowly turned me toward the door. “There are customers waiting.” There was a smile in his voice as I was encouraged across the threshold by his gentle prodding.

The rest of the day passed in a happy blur. We took tea at Adelajda’s residence, enjoying a serene afternoon around the kitchen table. Babcia was well enough to join us and entertained the two of us (through Adelajda) of stories of her younger days in the Polish countryside. I wanted to tell Adelajda the good news, but from the knowing smile she gave me before we left, I wondered if she might have guessed it already.

I walked arm in arm with Mr. Chesley as we made our way back to _Vilis Libri_. We were enjoying these small intimacies that the change in our relationship made possible. It felt like a natural progression.

Later that afternoon, we sat in front of the fire, as we always did. As we had exhausted both of Ann Radcliffe’s latest works, we decided to explore the realm of drama and poetry. It was my turn to choose today’s reading, and I stood on my tiptoes to retrieve a tall, slim book from the poetry section.

When I handed it to him, he glanced up at me with an exceedingly fond expression and said, “Why, Mary! _The Lady of the Lake? Y_ ou _are_ a romantic after all!”

“I am just as shocked as you, _moja droga_ ,” I sat in the chair beside his and reached for his hand.

He opened the book on his lap with his free hand and began to read:

“Harp of the North! that mouldering long hast hung

On the witch-elm that shades Saint Fillan's spring

And down the fitful breeze thy numbers flung,

Till envious ivy did around thee cling,

Muffling with verdant ringlet every string,—

O Minstrel Harp, still must thine accents sleep?”

~

I never believed I would write these words, but—somehow Mr. Chesley managed to charm my mother.

He came to our house tonight, and I was especially anxious due to my mother’s unusual quietness. Perhaps she was still shocked by the truth that I had an actual suitor, or maybe Father had actually convinced her that she need not hope for a match between myself and Vicar Fulton. Whatever the reason, she was not her usual chatterbox self. When Augustus arrived, he spoke easily with my father on many subjects (ranging from philosophy to literature and to the changeable nature of the summer weather). But something miraculous happened.

“Miss Bennet, I have met only two of your daughters, but I am convinced that you have raised some of the finest young women in England.”

“Oh!” My mother was taken aback—speechless, for nearly the first time in her life. “Why, you have not met Jane yet! She is our pride and joy, is she not, dearest?”

“All our daughters hold a special place in our hearts, my love.” Father responded with his stereotypical dryness.

“Why, of course,” she corrected herself, only slightly discomposed.

Mr. Chesley deftly brought up the subject of Pemberley, and this appeared to open the floodgates. Mother _did_ enjoy gushing about Lizzie and Darcy’s home and comparing it to Netherfield Park, which, she assured him, was just as fine if not a bit smaller.

And so the evening progressed. It was still partially light outside, and Mr. Chesley wondered if he could explore the grounds with me before he departed. My father agreed and asked for my mother’s ‘assistance’ with something before my mother could insinuate herself into our stroll.

I led him to the spot where Catherine de Bourgh once described it as a “prettyish kind of a little wilderness.”

Well out of sight of the house, we seated ourselves on a stone bench, and I heaved a sigh of relief.

“You survived a meal with my mother. I cannot believe it, Augustus!”

He smiled, a soft, unfamiliar look in his eyes, and reached forward to place a hand on my cheek. I felt a sudden panic rise in my throat—I had never been kissed, Libellus. And it had never been a source of fear or regret for me until that precise moment.

But the instant his lips touched mine, all of my anxieties melted away.

Any man who endures an hour with my mother and _still_ wants to kiss me is worth more than Darcy and Bingley’s considerable yearly earnings—in fact, this man is priceless.

I have never looked forward to another day’s work with more anticipation or excitement.

Til tomorrow,

_Mary B._

_P.S._ I am adding this quite late, as I just overheard Mother saying (and I am quoting directly): "I suppose 300 pounds a year is still quite respectable."

I am speechless. Happy, but speechless.

_ Monday September 3rd, 1815 _

Libellus,

Our Adelajda has returned to us at last! I am infinitely grateful for her company, and the tasks of maintaining cleanliness in a store owned by Augustus is nearly too much. Especially now—he seems to be more absent-minded and careless lately. This morning, I found teacups in the oddest places, books out of order, and more ashes scattered on the carpet (he _will_ insist on trying to clean the hearth himself—bless him).

When I asked Adelajda about this behavior, she laughed and only said, “It is love, Mary! It can drive any man to distraction, even Mr. Chesley.”

I pondered this, wondering if Mr. Chesley, too, was a secret romantic like myself.

My suspicions were confirmed when _twice_ he called me into his office, ostensibly to consult me over book orders—only to pull me into his arms and kiss me as soon as the door was closed.

Not that I was complaining, mind you.

I suppose soon we will have to decide on wedding arrangements. Who will marry us? Oh Lord, will it be Vicar Fulton? And where will we live once we marry? So many things to consider, Libellus, and seemingly so little time. But I will do my best to enjoy life as it is now. There will be time.

Distractedly yours,

_Mary B._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this is a shorter chapter than usual, but you have to forgive Mary. She's quite distracted at the moment with kisses in the office, tea in front of the fire, and gazing in the eyes of the man she loves (at last!). 
> 
> Leave some love in the comments!
> 
> <3


	13. She Stoops to Conquer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My secretly romantic heart fluttered at that statement—yes, actually fluttered, like some florid romance novel.

_ Tuesday, September 4th, 1815 _

Libellus,

I received three letters today— _three_! I think Mother must have penned a rush of correspondence the moment she heard of my betrothal.

_My dear Mary,_

_What a surprise it was to hear about your proposal! Charles and I would love to meet this Mr. Chesley in person. Lizzie wrote to me about his visit, and he seems to be an interesting fellow._

(This is Jane’s kind way of saying that he seems unlike any typical gentleman she has met, and she will reserve her judgment until she is acquainted with him.)

Jane proceeded with an official invitation to Netherfield, which I plan to accept in the near future.

The next:

_Mary,_

_Neither Darcy nor I were very surprised when we heard of your betrothal (while we were not as adept at recognizing signs of love in each other in those early days, we are much quicker at recognizing it in others—and between you and Mr. Chesley we witnessed the beginnings of a true and lasting friendship that would quickly develop into love). What a joy it is for us, as we are exceedingly fond of your gentleman! Please come to see us soon._

Lizzie concluded with:

_P.S. I may have let the news slip to Jane. I couldn’t hold it in any longer—and no doubt Mother will have already said something. Do forgive my excitement!_

The last letter (and I’m sure you’ll guess right away who it’s from):

_Mary Mary Quite Contrary,_

_Do you remember when I started calling you that? What fun! I congratulate you! I do hope you will let us know when the wedding is. I haven’t been to a good party in such a long time—my Wickham has been unwell, you know._

_I understand that you will be coming into some money by marrying this Mr. Chester, and I was wondering if you would find it in yourself to…_

And, naturally, Lydia asked for me to send her some funds to take care of a bill that they simply could not cover themselves. I sighed at this, incredibly saddened by the artless nature of my youngest sister. I was actually hoping to converse with her on a deeper level through our correspondence, but it appears she is more interested in how to get herself and her spendthrift husband out of debt.

“Anything the matter, my dear?” Augustus asked as he read his book in front of the fire. “I hear an awful lot of sighing from your corner of the store.”

“Yes, well,” I stood, sighed again, and joined him by the hearth. “I don’t know that I’ve told you about Lydia. Or Jane or Kitty, for that matter. But I suppose I should get the youngest out of the way first.”

Augustus set his book aside and clasped his hands over his chest, eyeing me attentively as I spoke. I told him of the scandal in our family the day that Lydia and Wickham ran off, and how they were practically forced to wed. Their life in the less respectable side of London has been filled with less than respectable parties, Wickham’s shocking gambling habit, and an unsurprising amount of debt. I told him of Lydia’s premature request for funds from me and how much my mother likely fulfills these demands, against the wishes of my father.

“No doubt she will show up on our doorstep some day and ask us for money for a new dress.” I sighed again.

Augustus mimicked this sigh and gave me a fond smile. “We will find a way to help her, even if it is not by financial means.”

I returned his smile, feeling a sense of relief washing over me. And then I couldn’t help myself, Libellus. The details are nagging at me already.

“By the by, Augustus,” (his eyes always light up when I use his given name) “Where are we to live once we’re married?”

He pondered this for a moment. “Would you find living above the shop too uncomfortable?”

I pressed his hand gently. “That depends on the condition of the living space, _moja droga_.”

He grinned, and then, in his usual style, jumped up and declared he would return shortly—only to disappear up the stairs. I shook my head after him and returned to my work straightening the shop before it opened.

Adelajda arrived, looking fresher and rosier than ever, and she took over the tasks of cleaning while I calculated yesterday’s sales.

Augustus bounded down the stairs, his hair in its usual disarray, and he declared, “Your palace awaits your inspection, my lady.”

Adelajda laughed good-naturedly at him and promised to keep an eye on the shop while I obliged his request.

“Do not worry, friend. I will keep countenance if anyone should ask.”

I laughed at her statement—as if anyone would think I, Mary Bennet, would be silly enough to fall into a scrape fit for my youngest sister. I knew Augustus and I were too levelheaded to fall prey to any temptations while we were alone. However, I knew that my mother would also be scandalized if she ever heard of it—so I thanked Adelajda nonetheless and made my up the stairs.

It was exactly as I feared. Much like the state of his office, there were papers and books scattered on practically every surface. His candelabra (an old, tarnished piece) was covered in years of caked candle wax, and his furniture was in a sad state of disrepair.

When I reached the peak of the staircase, I turned back at him. He could read my expression immediately.

He put a hand over his heart and quoted, with mock humility: “‘I have lived, indeed, in the world, madam; but I have kept little company. I have been but an observer upon life, madam, while others were enjoying it.’”

“Don’t think that stating lines from _She Stoops to Conquer_ will distract me one bit from the state of this place.” I leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. “But I adore you no less for your literary taste nor for the state of our future home.”

He had a glint in his eyes that told me he wished to embrace me, but I put a finger to his lips before he could advance any further.

“We will attempt to clean this first, and then—perhaps—we can have one of our little meetings in your office.”

Augustus deftly stole a kiss but agreed to these terms, however.

I was aware that the state of Augustus’s office and his home might have some relation to his inability to let go of his grandfather’s copy of _Robinson Crusoe_. Perhaps the small scraps of paper, tattered books, and ragged furniture reminded him of his _grand-pere_. I moved cautiously because of this, ensuring that every piece I touched was given the care and attention it deserved.

I gave him tasks to do, such as emptying the grate of its overflowing ashes, starting a fresh fire, and creating his own pile of items that he did not wish to dispose of. It was laborious, but we were making some headway in the main parlor.

I must admit I am surprised at the spaciousness of the living quarters. The stairs lead directly into the main parlor, which has four windows overlooking the street. There are two doors, one of which leads to an unexpectedly airy master bedroom, and the other leads to what I can only assume is being used for book storage. I can hardly make sense of the room’s proportions as it is stacked high with books in every corner and across the entire floor.

Augustus quickly shut the door to this room with a sheepish expression. I assured him that we wouldn’t tackle everything at once but in small pieces.

Exhausted with the morning’s exertions, we contented ourselves by sitting in front of the fire at a small, battered table with two rickety chairs.

He gazed at me with a hangdog expression. “What are you thinking, my dear?”

“The furniture needs a bit of attention,” I took both his hands in mine, “but I do believe I could see a future here.”

He rose to his feet, rounded the table, and kissed me.

I do believe this is the sign of a great start.

Til tomorrow,

_Mary B._

_ Wednesday, September 5th, 1815 _

Libellus,

Something quite miraculous happened. Before I write it here, I’ll describe Augustus’s reaction first:

I was in the midst of straightening my desk (some of Augustus’s clutter had migrated on top of it—I’ll have to find a way to put a stop to that) when there was a tap at the door. I looked up and expected it to be Adelajda, who perhaps forgot her keys, but it was my father.

I quickly opened the door and invited him in from the unexpectedly chilly morning air. He sat himself in front of the fire, and before I could rush to make a pot of tea, he took my hand and stopped me to stand in front of him.

“My dear, I have something to tell you.” He smiled up at me with a dry chuckle, “No, it’s nothing serious, I assure you. Your mother doesn’t know about this, so we’ll keep it under our hats. I’ve been siphoning off the funds she has tried to send that foolhardy sister of yours.”

I kept hold of his hand and seated myself beside him.

“It comes to a total of nearly 500 pounds. I want it to be my gift to you and Chesley—to help start your lives out a little stronger than your mother and I when we first wed.”

There were tears in my eyes, Libellus. I was not expecting this at all. I don’t recall exactly what I said, but I saw that he had unshed tears in his own eyes.

“I have also been setting aside a small amount—being the father of five daughters, it is practically an unwritten rule. But Lydia and Wickham received their dowry from Darcy, you see. If they have squandered it, then it is their doing and not ours. Jane and Lizzie married so far above us that they have little need of this money.” He smiled and pressed my hand. “I must be perfectly honest, Mary, I never expected you to need it.”

I laughed at this. “Neither did I, Father.”

I am so eternally grateful to him. It saddened me that I couldn’t share this joy with my mother—I’m not sure that she would understand. She has a certain blind spot when it comes to Lydia. But I am grateful, humbled, and touched by this gesture from my father.

He was eager to leave before Augustus arrived—no doubt unwilling to show this softer side of himself. He keeps the more sensitive, emotional part of him hidden from most people. I hugged him tighter than I have in a long time, and we stood there for what felt like ages.

After he left, I waited anxiously for Augustus. He at last came down the stairs, and I jumped up to share my news with him. He appeared stunned by it and was speechless for almost a full minute.

I shook his shoulders gently and grinned at him. “You didn’t know you were marrying a woman of property, did you?”

He stepped back and gave me a mock bow. “I’m marrying above my station, Ma’am.” His face grew sober. “But what shall we do with all this wealth?”

“I think we should use it to get some new furniture for our future home.”

He took me in his arms and embraced me. “I adore you, Mary Bennet.”

My secretly romantic heart fluttered at that statement—yes, actually _fluttered_ , like some florid romance novel—and I returned this sentiment in full by pressing my lips to his.

My mind was filled with thoughts of furniture catalogues, upholstery shops, and fabrics. There would be much to plan and prepare for. But for once, the two of us would have the means to indulge in a bit of finery.

Til then,

_Mary B._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short chapter just to let you know I have not abandoned this story! Let me know what you think of all the adorableness. 
> 
> <3
> 
> Riadasti


	14. Brevity is the Soul of Wit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I feel as though I’m contributing to life rather than coasting through it with a negative outlook.

_ Wednesday, October 6th, 1815 _

Libellus,

My, how the time has flown! Has it truly been a month since I last wrote?

I have quite a few items to confer to you, as it has been a busy time in our lives.

The first of which is that sweet Kitty and Jamie came to visit us shortly after the day of Father’s unexpected gift of 500 pounds. I was thrilled to make Jamie’s acquaintance again—and Augustus was enchanted to meet the pair of them for the first time. I was reminded again of how well suited the pair of them are. Kitty is quietly passionate and light-hearted, and Jamie is a stalwart companion who matches her in spirits and enthusiasm. Even though a man as young as Jamie suffered such a crushing injury and dismissal from the Navy, he is a remarkable carpenter and has started his own business in town. Augustus and I were more than happy to be one of his first customers.

For only a nominal fee (he insisted on giving us a “family and friends” discount), he repaired the bannister and replaced every single baluster with hand-turned pillars that were pieces of art in their own right. Kitty proved to be an excellent assistant and helped me to whitewash the upstairs rooms, which had cracked and faded over years of neglect. We made a sad mess of our clothes and a few places on the hardwood floors, but it was wonderful to simply enjoy working side-by-side, needing to say very little to each other.

I must admit, Libellus, that I have underestimated Kitty on many occasions. Growing up, I assumed she was just as young and artless creature as Lydia. Though Kitty was devastated that her bosom companion left for London with her new husband, I never really noticed how much Kitty has grown into her own woman over the years. Though she can be more bothered by mother’s comments than she should (she is at times overly sensitive, but who isn’t under my mother’s tirades and under-handed barbs?). It has done her well to find herself in her current situation, living almost full-time with Jamie’s parents. She hasn’t visited as often (I know Father misses her terribly), but she confided to me that she wishes to remedy this as she and Jamie prepare to create a life for themselves.

“You’re different too, you know,” Kitty said to me as we worked side by side.  
I must have fixed her with an odd expression, because she laughed at me and followed her statement with – “For the good, Mary.”

I laughed, and agreed with her. She is right, after all. Working at _Vilis Libri_ with Augustus and Adelajda has done wonders for my sense of self-worth, and I feel as though I’m contributing to life rather than coasting through it with a negative outlook.

Thanks to Kitty and Jamie’s assistance, our little home above the shop is nearly ready for us to move in. After we wed in a month’s time, I hope to have every element finished.

Augustus finally Jane and Bingley. Jane was a bit more reserved than usual at first, but she pulled me aside once Bingley and Augustus fell into discussions about the merits of hunting.

“Mary, I _do_ like him,” she smiled at me, with her full, sunny smile and linked her arm with mine.

Augustus made quite a good impression on Jane and Bingley, and I know there will be more visits in the future.

Libellus, I’m doing my best to recall all that has happened…

Oh! How could I forget to write about this? Kitty and Jamie are getting married in less than a week, and Lizzie has insisted on visiting often to ensure there is nothing she can do assist with the arrangements—and to keep Mother from gushing too much at family functions, thus robbing Kitty of a moment’s silence on any of her visits. Darcy accompanies Lizzie when he can, but he always finds a way to spend time with Augustus.

What a strange circumstance it is to look back only three months ago. How different life has become!

Till tomorrow,

_Mary B._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My faithful readers and friends,
> 
> I SO appreciate your patience! Life has really been kicking me in the teeth lately. I am getting married at the beginning of November and am still working on the thesis portion of my degree, so you can understand how difficult it is to find time and creative energy to write. But I wanted to let you know I am not giving up on this story! I've come too far to let Mary and Augustus and all the various Bennets down like that. 
> 
> Stay tuned for more! Hopefully it won't be too long between this and the next (much longer) update!!
> 
> <3


	15. The Castle of Otranto

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I narrowed my eyes at him. “Are you quoting something at me? Even now while my mind is preoccupied?”

_ Sunday, December 17th, 1815 _

Libellus,

Oh, Lord—though I rarely take His name in vain, it is warranted at this moment. How long has it truly been since I’ve been able to put pen to paper? Two months? More? I’ve lost track, sweet Libellus. And even now I feel almost too weary to write all that has happened.

But I must.

The Bennet brood and their associates (which is what Augustus lovingly calls our large gatherings that have been happening frequently) have had several kick-ups and near-scandals to last us the rest of our cumulative lives. It strikes me time and again how small my home lodgings (soon to be _former_ lodgings) with my parents become when the entire family gathers in one place.

First I will focus on the one bright, brilliant spot of joy in the last two months – Kitty and Jamie’s wedding. It was a gloriously sunny, if chilly, Saturday morning and all went without a hitch. I should say _almost_ all. Lydia, despite her many letters announcing the contrary, was not in attendance. We were alarmed, but for Kitty’s sake we kept our focus on the newlyweds and their glorious send-off in a carriage festooned with white ribbons.

I don’t believe even Kitty noticed the youngest Bennet daughter’s absence—and how could she, bless her? She had barely a moment to catch her breath from the moment she awoke to the close of the ceremony. And she had the delightful distraction of Jamie’s kind, handsome face beside her.

Father pulled me aside the moment the carriage crested the hill, and he spoke at intervals to me between well wishers.

“My dear, I’m very worried—yes, _thank you_ , Mrs. Smith. We are delighted for her, too—about your sister Lydia—what’s that, Charles? Yes, a lovely ceremony indeed!—and that rascal Wickham. Have you heard from—Vicar, an excellent service if I do say so. Much appreciated—” And so forth in this distracted, disjointed manner.

We managed to complete this conversation just out of earshot of Mother, who was naturally prattling endlessly into the ears of poor Charlotte Lucas’s parents.

“I haven’t received any letters from her, but we don’t correspond,” I said with true chagrin. I felt the pangs of guilt tugging at my heart. Why had I not bothered to write her more often?

Father’s face was pinched, and he looked weary—it was the same sort of exhaustion and fear that he wore the day he learned Lydia had run off with Wickham. Fear gripped my chest, Libellus. I saw this clear as day on his face for a brief moment before he pinched his lips and shook the expression into its usual bemused appearance, for the benefit of several more attendees passing by.

He pressed my elbow gently and whispered, “I will send a letter at once to a contact in London. They will reach me with news within the week.”

We were pulled apart at that moment by a stream of other members wishing to bestow their congratulations to the family. I located Augustus, and before I could confide in him, we were set upon by the busybodies of the town who wished to know every last detail of our wedding plans.

Hours passed (or so it seemed) until we could return to the shop for a brief respite until I would return home. I was pacing the floor and anxious, unable to put my thoughts into words just yet.

I found myself staring into the flames and ignoring Augustus’s pointed look from his seated position.

“I’m worried about Lydia,” I found myself saying.

He turned to me with a dramatic expression of disbelief. “‘My soul abhors a falsehood!’”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “Are you quoting something at me? Even now while my mind is preoccupied?” My voice was snappish, and I could see the surprise in his eyes.

He held his hands up in surrender. “It’s only _The Castle of Otranto_ , in a sad attempt to distract you from these worries.”

I sighed, instantly soothed by his silliness. He stood and opened his arms, gesturing for me to approach. He did not need to beckon twice—I moved into his embrace and felt his calm reassurance wash over me.

“Tell me your troubles, _moja droga_.” He said. “I’m listening.”

I am still getting used to having a shoulder to lean on, Libellus.

I told him the entirety, and he simply shook his head and assured me all would be well.

It was my hope that all _would_ be well, but I am afraid my father’s contact found it was quite the opposite. He discovered that Wickham had been in a decline for many months—though she had never mentioned this in her letters to Jane or Mother, the only two who still maintained regular correspondence with her. Wickham was taken to hospital, and it was found that he was stricken very ill.

I still do not know the full details, but he died soon after. Lydia had been living in their small abode alone and riddled with the heavy burden of her husband’s untimely death—and, unfortunately, his mountain of debts.

The guilt has been almost unbearable, Libellus. Had I just taken the time to reach out to her…but Augustus assures me (though I resented him for his statement and would not speak to him for several hours) that she may never have told me, even if I had been more purposeful with my letters. He was right, of course—he almost always is, which is maddening.

And so, with the funeral and Lydia moving back home to live in her old room, our wedding has been delayed till the start of the year. We felt—more aptly _I_ felt—that we should wait, out of respect for Lydia. This spurred perhaps one of our biggest disagreements in the span of our relationship.

Augustus felt we should continue with our ceremony, and I insisted we wait. Neither of us wanted to admit the other was right, and so our stubbornness led to some rather childish arguments.

“Why should we wait, my love?” He had insisted.

“Out of common respect and decency.”

“But Lydia is the one in a period of mourning, not us. Should we also don black clothes and weep as the widows do over such a ne’er-do-well?”

I balked at his blunt statement. Though, secretly, I’m ashamed to admit I agreed with him…

Perhaps it was the stress of the situation, the unknown of Lydia’s situation (and likely financial burden on the family due to Wickham’s recklessness), and the deep guilt I felt at not being present for my sister when she was most in need—but I could only lash out at my dear Augustus as a result. I don’t quite remember what I said…he assures me it was truly the basest, unkind words he had ever heard.

We didn’t speak for a full three days. At one point, we even asked Adelajda to convey messages to each other, often while still in each other’s presence. That’s how ridiculous it became.

It wasn’t until Adelajda, standing between the pair of us (seething and ignoring each other’s sharp glances), threw up her hands, shouted something in Polish, and stormed out of the store that we saw sense.

Augustus had stared after our mutual friend as she made a hasty retreat. “Was that a curse?”

“I can only assume,” I responded, feeling my cheeks flush hot with embarrassment. “She never taught me that phrase.”

“And I can only admit that it must have taken a lot to rile up our even-tempered, sweet friend in such a fashion.” He glanced over at me with a sheepish expression.

We expressed our profuse apologies simultaneously. He stated he was selfish to want us to proceed with the wedding so soon after Wickham’s death, and I admitted my motives were self-serving, as I wanted to prove I could be a supportive sister to Lydia—meanwhile, I just as badly wanted to marry Augustus.

We reconciled, apologized to Adelajda, and have made a promise to never allow more than a day to pass over our anger. Knowing our mutual stubbornness, that promise will be an almost insurmountable challenge.

And so, Libellus, the period of mourning has passed. Lydia is looking to the future. She has settled nicely in Mother and Father’s place, and, I must admit, being a widow suits Lydia. She has become a more sober woman through her trials. She talks less and less of money and has dropped all pretense that her marriage to Wickham was idyllic.

I caught Lydia in a rare moment of candor one evening (Mother and Father had retired to bed, and Lydia and I remained in the parlor). I glanced up from my book when the fire began to die down and found her staring into the glowing embers with a wistful expression.

I have spent so long ignoring my youngest sister and dismissing her strongly expressed emotions as being ‘overly dramatic.’ I stared at her, Libellus, and realized I barely recognized the young woman in front of me.

“What’s the matter?” I said.

“I’m a widow at 19, Mary,” she said, and I was shocked to see tears in her eyes.

I set my book aside and gave her a half-hearted smile. What does one say to that statement, after all?

“Many of my friends have already had children, but I feel as though I shall have to start all over again—if such an event is in the cards for such as me.”

I gazed at this unfamiliar person in front of me, marveling at how many years I envied her youth and natural beauty. I do not envy her now, Libellus. And yet…

“You will make a very merry and pretty widow, Lydia. I have no doubt about it.”

Lydia let her head fall back against the cushions and laughed—a delightful, tinkling sound, and it made me wistful for the old days (even if it involved me sulking in the corner). And it made me hopeful that even now, I could work to repair a relationship that has grown more and more distant over the years.

Augustus and I are also looking to the future—our wedding is in one month! There seems no end to preparations. Mother has insisted we have a party to commemorate the occasion (no doubt she thought this day would never arrive). Though we have neither the room nor the financial capabilities to do so, she has invited far too many people. Including, as it turns out…our cousin, Mr. Collins.

I have no concept of how this will play out, Libellus.

Till tomorrow,

_Mary B._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm baaaaaack!! Hopefully for good this time. <3


End file.
